


In Restless Dreams

by charcoalwinter



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: "Protect Bucky Barnes", A Quote By Literally Everyone, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, But First..., But Then It Explodes, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Dark Tony Stark, Dissociation, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Steve Rogers, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Kidnapping, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Medical Doctor Bruce Banner, Medical Inaccuracies, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, No Underage Sex, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Panic Attacks, Rating May Change, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Slow Burn, Stockholm Syndrome, Stress, Temporary Muteness, This Entire Thing Contains Enough Negative Emotions To Sink The Titanic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2020-05-07 16:39:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19213366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charcoalwinter/pseuds/charcoalwinter
Summary: When he discovers what he believes to be the truth about his parents’ recent deaths, a powerful and morally ambiguous Tony Stark sets out to get his revenge on Steve Rogers. How does Bucky Barnes fit into this feud and why isn't anybody giving him a pair of socks?“It isn’t often that Tony Stark finds himself unsure of anything, but this situation has him doubting his every thought, his every move … with Rogers comes James, and that boy is muddling Tony’s mind.”~ interrupted excerpt from ch 4.Title from the masterpiece that isThe Sound Of Silenceby Simon & Garfunkel. (You should defs listen to Disturbed’s rendition too!)





	1. where the dogs of society howl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary - a narrator narrates some important things (badly); Bucky is a chef; Steve runs (away from his feelings)
> 
> Chapter title from _Goodbye Yellow Brick Road_ by Elton John.
> 
> Please take these chapter titles however you see fit. I know my own interpretations and why I personally picked certain lyrics for each section of the story, but I don't want to poison whatever you perceive them to mean by telling you how I see them. Imagination is important, even when only exercised in the smallest of ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've chosen to ignore the holiday seasons in this story since the first plot domino falls over at the end of December and it would complicate everything and add lots of unnecessary words and details. Just pretend the characters celebrated whatever it is you want them to celebrate, or forget about it, like I did. Oops.
> 
> I do not own Marvel or any of Marvel’s characters. The writing and the plot are my own work and all mistakes are solely mine. Please do not make any of the actors aware that this exists.
> 
> Boring stuff aside, I’m going to shut up now. Enjoy xx

** NARRATOR **

Driving through the back country in December was a dangerous endeavour, especially in the hours following twilight. The lack of salted roads combined with the haphazard way the tarmac cut through trees and fields and mountains alike was tricky enough without the layer darkness blanketing the area.

One particular Sunday night, when the roads were slippery and the visibility was low, the screeching sounds of metal on metal on wood were heard only by surrounding wildlife. It was close to twenty minutes before someone discovered the offending wreckage and called the services, then another thirty minutes before help arrived and began to survey the scene.

After hundreds of photos, expert observations of the site, recounts from the two survivors in hospital, and vehicle inspections among other details, a brief primary report was constructed. The relevant information was pulled together and documented before being sent to the next of kin within the week.

 

Incident date: 16th December 2018

Vehicle A contained one driver and one passenger, aged 23 and 22 respectively. Minimal injury to driver; concussion, sprained left wrist, laceration on right calf, several minor scrapes on face and torso. Passenger found unconscious; suspected concussion, blood loss due to extensive lacerations on left arm, bruised-not-fractured left side ribs 6, 7, 8, minor cut on forehead. Both taken to hospital immediately.

Vehicle B contained one driver and one passenger, aged 66 and 62 respectively. Both dead at the scene. 

Vehicle A lost control on the icy road surfacing and crossed the lane markings to collide with Vehicle B. Vehicle A flipped on impact and rolled ~19ft before coming to halt. Vehicle B veered off tarmac and hit tree at speed.

 

A detailed investigation followed the collision, and though it would take months for the official report to be finalised, it is expected to be concluded that there is zero blame to pass due to the unsafe road conditions and the obvious accidental loss of control of Vehicle A and, consequently, Vehicle B. Journalists reported all the findings they could scrounge up and the public read their stories.

 

** AES - 20th December 2018 **

“We found the driver, Boss.”

Tony glanced up from his desk with a calm expression carefully in place; a mask to cover his true emotions. “Pick him up. Be discrete. No witnesses and no damage to him or his property. I want him here within the week,” he rattled off the short, clear orders and looked back to his papers without waiting for a reply, dismissing his minion.

He knew it would get done. His infamous reputation wasn’t forged from nothing.

 

** JBB - 26th December 2018 **

Three days after his week-long stint in hospital had finally ended, James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes was still getting used to the bandages that wrapped snugly around his left arm. The inflamed and broken skin underneath was constantly itchy, the only respite being the hour every morning and night when the dressings came off and the whole area could be washed and treated and left to air and rest. It was an awkward task, one that the nurses had helped him with in hospital, and one that Steve helped him with now.

Having known each other for 14 plus years, few boundaries existed between the two friends. Tending each other’s wounds was definitely not one of them, what with how many times they had fixed each other up through their school years after dumb fights and silly accidents. Steve Rogers was Bucky’s best guy, brother, wing-man, and idol. They were together through thick and thin, ‘til the end of the line.

Which is why sitting shirtless on the edge of the bath and having salve being gently rubbed around his stitched-up wounds by his best friend was not a big deal at all to Bucky. He knew he needed the help, and Steve still had guilt eating him up inside for thinking the whole situation and all of its consequences were entirely his fault. Anything that came up that Steve thought he could do to ease Bucky’s life during recovery and he was there, even letting Bucky stay in his pathetically small, definitely-owned-by-a-college-student apartment, though Bucky’s own was just a floor below in the same building.

It might sound over-the-top and a step too far, but the convenience of someone being _right there_ when he needed assistance was unparalleled. Besides, it was only for another few days, and then Steve would be going back to college and Bucky would return to his own apartment and take his classes online where he could.

“Alright jerk, you’re done,” Steve said, patting Bucky on his uninjured shoulder and packing away the cream. “I’ll help with the fresh bandages after breakfast.”

Bucky looked up with a smile which, though lacking the brazen confidence he would have plastered on his face two weeks ago, coyly portrayed his sincerity and gratefulness. “Thanks, punk. Go and run like the hounds are chasing you, I’ll start preparing what I can. Bacon pancakes, right?”

“Right,” Steve grinned toothily, turning to go for his morning jog.

When he heard the front door of Steve’s apartment open and shut, Bucky allowed himself to look down at his arm. It didn’t even look like his arm anymore, with several long lacerations running up the outside, closed and held together with neat stitches while they heal. The redness and swelling were down drastically compared to the few glimpses he’d caught in the hospital. It had taken him until his day of release to manage seeing his appendage long enough to take in the details. At his first sighting of the injuries spanning his arm, shoulder and left side of his chest, Bucky had gagged as his body tried to empty itself, before breaking down in tears. It still made him feel queasy and upset even now.

He forced himself to spend a few minutes looking and lightly running his fingers over the wounds that would certainly scar, trying to adjust as much as he could stomach, telling himself that this was it now and for the rest of his life. His life which he knew he was lucky to get away with. But he didn’t want to think about that any more than he already had, no matter what his appointed therapist keeps telling him is best.

Decidedly looking away, Bucky stood and wandered out to Steve’s tiny kitchen where he found bacon and the necessary ingredients for pancake batter. It took him a little longer than it used to to pull out everything he needed and set it on the bench due to the stiffness and soreness in his arm, but he managed well enough. Plugging in his earphones, Bucky got to work cutting and measuring and mixing, humming along to every song as it shuffled through his personal ‘ _chill out_ ’ playlist.

When the bacon was cut to be cooked and the batter ready to pour, Bucky traipsed back to the bathroom to redo his bandages as tight and comfortable as possible without the help of someone else. He didn’t know how long Steve would be this morning, since he took a different route every day, but it would likely still be a while. Bucky couldn’t stand catching any more glimpses of his arm as he went about his morning tasks, and needed the dressings on as soon as possible. Steve could help him fix them later if need be.

~x~

Having re-bandaged himself and packed away the remaining gauze and supplies, Bucky was just pulling on a shirt when he heard a noise that definitely wasn’t part of the song currently playing. He quickly paused his music and stepped cautiously out of the bathroom and into the hallway.

Bucky highly doubted it was Steve back so early, but a 5’7” red-headed woman dressed head-to-toe in black definitely wasn’t what he was expecting. Nor did he anticipate the lightning-fast jab to his still-recovering ribs, or the jolt of electricity that ran through his body from whatever instrument he was hit with. He heard only his own faint, pained yell, and then there were arms on him, restraining his body.

 

** SGR **

The steady thudding of his footsteps and the controlled inhale-exhale of his breathing usually helped to calm Steve when his mind wouldn’t stop. It hasn’t helped since that day though.

In the week and a half since the accident, Steve had found himself drowning. The therapist that had been recommended to him had told him all about survivors’ guilt, and how it is a common and real thing that people have to deal with; that it isn’t just him. That was a big point of hers. She seemed insistent that Steve never feel like he’s all alone with what he’s “going through”.

He’s had three sessions in the ten days since the crash, but as nice a lady as his therapist is, Steve just really wants to be left alone to process this with his usual method of shove-it-down-so-deep-it’ll-never-see-the-light-of-day-again. He knows Bucky would be disappointed if he did that though. Bucky, who is hurting every minute because of Steve, who struggles his way through the most basic daily tasks, and who continues to insist that Steve himself is also a victim and should accept the help that is being willingly provided for him.

Steve doesn’t think he deserves Bucky. Or the help. He wasn’t just a survivor; he was the reason the whole thing happened. If he’d just been in better control of the vehicle; if he hadn’t been a little distracted by the music he and Bucky had been blasting and singing along to; if he’d checked the pressure, quality, and grip of his tyres before they’d set off, maybe none of this would have happened.

He has been doing his best to put on a good front for Bucky’s sake, trying to be his normal self, but he knows his best friend sees straight through his act, even though he hasn’t said anything about it. Steve keeps it up anyway. It doesn’t hurt as much as accepting reality would.

Shaking his head slight, as if that would clear the thoughts racing around his brain, Steve increased his speed a touch, arms pumping at his side, cutting through the air. He knows he’s pushing his body further than the doctors told him he should. The healing cut on his leg twinges slightly with every step, but in a way, it’s grounding. He feels like it’s the least he deserves for all the lives he has ruined.

His legs take him on one of his preferred routes, one that he hasn’t taken since the crash. The pathways are lined with huge trees that have shed their leaves in the cold, but remain standing tall and steady through the harsher months. Their mangled trunks are thick and strong and always remind Steve of the times he and Bucky found themselves out on a desperately-needed study break, daring each other to see how high they could climb before some middle-aged party pooper started yelling at them.

It would be a while before Bucky would be able to join him again.

With a deep sigh, Steve ran his fingers through his sweaty golden hair and turned home. It will end up a short run, nowhere near the distance he usually covers, but he can’t bring himself to care. The fresh air and exercise aren’t helping today.

~x~

The second Steve stepped onto his apartment’s floor he knew something was off. There was a certain silence replacing the usual thrum of activity that occurred at this time in the morning. In reality, he knew he could hear the business-man in 505 rushing around after his young girl; could feel the steady bass of the overwhelmingly loud alarm clock that belonged to the college juniors in 502; could smell the burning toast and tinned cat food from the elderly lady in 507. But the atmosphere felt different, somehow dangerous.

Curious, yet wary, he reached his front door and pushed it open, glancing into the kitchen and tiny dining area. The latter of the rooms was unsurprisingly empty, though in the kitchen there was a pan out ready for cooking the bacon and pancakes, and a small pile of dishes in the sink that hadn’t been there when he left. Steve noted Bucky’s absence from the kitchen and became more on edge with every passing second. Usually at this point, Bucky would have at least started the cooking in preparation for Steve’s return.

Silently grabbing a knife from the holder, Steve stepped into the hallway that led to the rest of his home. A quiet rustling and a muffled voice reached his ears just as Steve came into view of the living room. As much as you could call it a living room; there was only a lumpy of sofa set in front of an even older television that was surrounded by shelving covered in novels and textbooks and albums and DVDs.

Sitting on the sofa was a deadly looking woman in a form-fitting black leather jacket and black skinny jeans tucked into black combat boots. Next to her was a blond man, stocky and obviously muscled, also wearing a leather jacket, though his was tinted slightly purple in places, giving it a midnight vibe that Steve’s artist brain would find fascinating should the circumstances be different.

Circumstances weren’t different, however, and lying on the floor underneath one of the woman’s heavy boots was Bucky, squirming against the weight on his stomach and the tie-wraps binding his wrists and ankles. Pain is evident all over his face. From the way he’s moving, Steve can tell he’s done some more damage to his ribs, and his arm must be throbbing, though thankfully there doesn’t seem to be any blood seeping through his shirt.

“Bucky?” Steve breathed, before he could stop himself.

Bucky finally seems to notice Steve at the sound of his name, and some garbled sounds make their way through the fabric stuffed into his mouth. Though Steve can’t make out what he’s saying, he can hear the panic in Bucky’s voice. He stays where he’s standing, knife in hand, waiting for one of the intruders to make a move. 

It’s the woman that speaks up, ignoring the way her leg jiggles as Bucky continues wrestling with his bonds under her.  
“Steven Grant Rogers?”  
Her voice is husky and low, with something subtle in her accent that makes Steve think English isn’t her first language, or maybe even her second. 

“What do you want?” Steve asks, instead of answering her question. If she were in his apartment having tied up his best friend, he figures she’s smart enough and has access to enough resources to know for a fact that yes, he is Steven Grant Rogers.

She hums in response and nudges her partner. He stands as she answers, “I don’t want anything. My boss though… he wants justice.”

The woman’s partner lunges for Steve so fast he barely has time raise his knife for any kind of defence.

Steve hears Bucky’s muffled voice become louder and somehow more panicked, before the butt of a gun smashes his temple and he falls to the ground as fuzziness leads to grey leads to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written four chapters so far and have a vague idea of where I want the story to go, but it's not a complete work yet. I put off uploading this first chapter for so long because I'm a scared little bitch and require constant reassurance. But recently I thought, in the wise words of Shia LaBeouf, _JUST DO IT_ \- and, well, here we are.
> 
> Updates will be spread out because I want to have something written to follow up what's already been posted and it takes me a while to write things sometimes. Ch 1-5 will definitely be uploaded no matter what, though. 
> 
> xx


	2. see how deep the bullet lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary - Tony is large and in charge; Bucky’s toes are probably freezing; Steve is a bundle of rage (what’s new)
> 
> Chapter title from _Running Up That Hill_ by Kate Bush (though I much prefer Track and Field’s version).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uploaded this one pretty quickly because I’m on a high from a wicked opportunity that been presented to me in my real life and just…wow. So, enjoy!
> 
> Some visual inspiration before we begin:
> 
> Bucky:  
> 
> 
> Tony:  
> 
> 
> Steve:  
> 

** AES - 26th December 2018** (still)

A light knocking at his office door had Tony gratefully sighing in relief at the distraction from his never-ending, headache-inducing paperwork. He called out for whoever it was to come in as he pulled together his files and tapped them on the desk to straighten them out.

Natasha and Clint entered, each guiding a hooded and bound male to the middle of the room and pushing them onto their knees. One was wearing what appeared to be sports gear; a grey Under Armour t-shirt with patches of sweat still evident and the fabric barely holding together over bulging muscles, branded black shorts, and a pair of running shoes. The other wore a simple maroon Henley and grey sweats, his feet bare and slightly dirty from the walking he’d had to do since getting out of the van that brought him here.  Neither captive moved more than the initial, instinctual shuffle to get as comfortable as possible, and then the room was silent.

“What’s this?” Tony demanded, though he was fairly sure he could guess, thinking back through his miserable week and the cause of his grief.

“Steven Grant Rogers, boss,” Clint spoke, using his knee to nudge his victim’s back and smirking when he jerked away.

“And the other? I don’t recall asking for anyone but Rogers and I specifically said no witnesses.” His voice was sharp and instantly wiped the playful sneer off Clint’s face. He flicked his fingers at the two spies as he rose from his desk.

Both Nat and Clint took a step back from Rogers and the mystery man at Tony’s signal, before Clint cleared his throat slightly nervously. “We went inside Rogers’ apartment to wait for him since his morning runs don’t have a pattern we could follow, and we knew he’d go back home afterwards. It was the most tactical option we had, but we weren’t expecting more company.”

While Clint spoke, Tony had walked around his desk and now stood a few feet front of the kneeling men. They had remained suspiciously still and silent so far, which Tony put down to either pure terror, or some level of intelligence and decent survival instincts in dire situations.

“Before we entered, we failed to notice that Barnes was inside,” explained Nat, speaking slowly and obviously choosing her words with care.

“Barnes as in James Buchanan?” Tony interjected, caught slightly off guard in an unusual turn of events.

At his words, the figure that Nat had brought in flinched violently, then let out a soft whimper. Tony absently registered that the reports had said his ribs had been bruised in the crash and his arm torn to shreds. He wondered whether pain was the reason for his noise or whether it was borne of fear.

Nat nodded grimly and Tony quickly snapped his attention back to her. “He’s the only person Rogers leaves or enters his building with, but he lives on the floor below so we figured he would be in his own apartment. That was an oversight that we take full responsibility for, and we hope you can forgive our error.”

Tony hummed, thinking through her explanation and apology. They were his two best minions; he would almost call them friends, if he wasn’t so hesitant to use the label in general. The ‘Spy Kids’, as he had fondly called them many a time, certainly had the most freedom out of everyone he kept in his employ. He knew any mistake they made truly would have been accidental, and not in any way an attempt to sabotage the mission. The two of them together have never once failed his orders before, though he now had to somehow fix their transgression and the mess that has become of it.

Deciding to put aside any punishment for now -and yes, they will have to be punished eventually, if not for their benefit, then to impress on his other recruits the importance of obeying their given orders-, Tony turned his attention to Clint, who was standing a step behind Nat on her left side.

“How’d you get out without being seen?” Tony asked the man. “It was, what,” he looked at his watch, saw the time was 12:18, did the maths by estimating distances between locations, and continued, “6:30-7 in the morning when you were leaving the area? Surely there were people around.”

Clint stepped forward so he was now just in front of Nat’s shoulder. “Well, we needed an extra hand to get Barnes out, since we weren’t expecting him. Wilson of the Sam variety was waiting in the van. We called him up and then jumped out down the fire escape. None of the neighbours’ curtains were open and the alley was a dead end so it wasn’t difficult. It was our original plan, anyway. One extra body didn’t add too much time or danger.”

“I see,” was all Tony said in response. As long as nobody saw anything and the apartment was left as it was, he would only have to figure out what to do with the surprise visitor. Rogers’ fate was already written, but Barnes… Barnes was just as much a victim as Tony’s parents; he had the same amount of control over the situation as they did. That was to say, none at all.

Tony walked closer to Barnes, his footsteps loud on the hard-oak flooring, and reached out to the burlap sack that was over his head. Ignoring the flinch from Barnes and the _growl_ from Rogers at the sound of his movement, Tony lifted the bag to reveal plump pink lips surrounded by a light stubble that indicated one or two days without shaving. They looked flushed and abused, like they’d been nibbled on in a nervous gesture that Tony found strangely endearing. The bag rose further, showing a pleasantly shaped nose that scrunched up as the fabric brushed passed it, followed by a black blind-fold that concealed his eyes. Barnes’ hair came last, looking delightfully fluffy, slightly curled on the top of his head, short on the sides, and coloured a warm chestnut. It took all Tony had not to run his fingers through it.

Instead, he left the blind-fold in place, dropped the burlap at his feet without a word, and stepped across to reach for the bag covering Rogers.

Upon its removal, he found a strong, clean-shaven jaw and rosy lips turned down in a pout around a piece of black cloth.  
Tony raised an eyebrow at Nat, who shrugged and mumbled, “Once he was awake, he wouldn’t shut up. Barnes was fine as soon as we were on the road.”  
Amused, he continued lifting the bag above a straight and slightly pointed nose. Unlike Barnes, whose face was angled to the floor, Rogers’ was held high, and though his eyes were also covered by a black blind-fold, Tony could feel the glare aiming daggers at his head. The blond's hair was ruffled from the bag, staying stuck in all kinds of directions due to the sweat Tony now knew was a result of his exercise that morning.

It was interesting to note the difference in behaviour between the two college students; one clearly trying to be as small and invisible and non-threatening as possible, and the other standing -kneeling- tall, his back stiff and straight, chin up and holding what little ground he had.

Intrigued at the defiance, Tony roughly yanked the covering off Rogers’ eyes and watched as the man blinked and adjusted to the light. It took only a handful of seconds before he turned his eyes up at Tony, revealing them to be shockingly blue, lined with thick, blond lashes, and angry as a woken dragon.

There was a minute of silence during which nobody moved. Tony pulled the gag out. Rogers immediately snarled, still glaring at Tony, “Who in the hell do you think you are and what the fuck do you want from me?”

Tony chuckled humourlessly, looking down at the bound murderer. He didn’t answer, instead side-stepping back to Barnes and removing _his_ blind-fold, albeit more gently than he had Rogers’.

When the youngest member of the room had finished blinking in shock, Tony was met with another pair of startlingly blue eyes. This pair though, were big and round, framed by darker lashes, and hued an icier shade. At Barnes’ intense gaze, Tony felt like he was being pierced by frozen swords. There were no tears present, but the way he looked up to Tony from his place on the floor, coupled with the huge eyes, slightly parted lips and utter confusion written on his face, made him look so sad and lost that Tony almost wanted to wrap him up in a blanket and comfort him forever.

Which was, of course, an insane thought that Tony shook himself out of immediately. He stepped back from the two still bound and continued on his business.

 

** JBB **

After waking blindfolded and restrained in the back of a vehicle, and a walk through however many hallways, Bucky found himself kneeling on a hard, wooden floor and staring up at the man who had ripped him from Steve’s home and, somehow, knew who he was.

Bucky was scared and angry and discombobulated, and he wasn’t sure what to do or how to behave to reduce his chances of injury or death. So far, he’d done his best to not piss anybody off -aside from his obvious attempts to evade this whole situation that morning-, trying to be as quiet and compliant as he could. Steve had been doing enough protesting for the both of them, and earlier, in a moment of insane hilarity, the thought of ‘good hostage, bad hostage’ crossed Bucky’s mind.

Now though, he couldn’t find anything to giggle to himself about. His arm ached more than he’d ever thought it could. The extended time it had been restrained behind him was taking its toll, and Bucky imagined that if he ever managed to get free while he was still alive, the ache would take a long while to ease, even if he used his physical therapy exercises.

He had known Steve was to his left, but now having the chance to look over, Bucky could see that he was also kneeling with his arms bound behind his back. Though unlike Bucky, Steve still seemed to be filled with rage-and-only-rage, and had no apparent care for how well their captors would react to such fury. Typical Steve Rogers.

Just as Bucky was about to hiss Steve’s name in an attempt to stop him from doing something stupid, the ‘boss’, as the stocky blond man had addressed him, took a few steps backwards until he was leaning slightly against his heavy oak desk. His hands rested lightly on the wood either side of his hips, and Bucky knew he was trying to look relaxed while also continuing to show everyone in the room that he was still in charge.

The boss was pulling the look off well; the neatly trimmed and uniquely shaped facial hair matched with a hairstyle that was longer and messily styled on top and shorter on the sides, gave off the vibe of someone who was not afraid to be themselves and was respected for that trait. It was hard to tell while kneeling on the floor, but he looked to stand around Bucky’s height, maybe an inch or two taller but not quite reaching Steve’s 6’2”. His clothing was a simple -though probably ridiculously expensive- white collared shirt under a navy waistcoat, with matching coloured slacks fitted perfectly to his legs, and brown leather shoes that, surprisingly, were a little scuffed on the toe.

It seemed an odd detail for Bucky to note, for he wasn’t usually so observant, but having spent the last two minutes trying to look anywhere that wasn’t the man’s face, he supposed it wasn’t odd that he had become familiar with the state of his footwear.

He was startled out of his thoughts when the boss began to speak. 

“I have never been in a situation quite like this one before, so I’m not exactly sure where I should start.”  
The man’s voice was orotund and confident, like he did a lot of talking even on topics he wasn’t sure about, projecting a false sense of belonging and comfort. He shrugged his shoulders, paused for a second like he truly didn’t know what to say, and then continued. “My name is Tony Stark,” he announced.

Out the corner of his eye, Bucky saw Steve tense up even further than he had been, while he himself felt and icy shiver race down his spine and form a frozen pool in his stomach. He knew that Stark was the name of the married couple who were killed in the crash. This Tony Stark looked to be in his mid-thirties, which could mean…

“You’re their son,” Steve whispered, finishing Bucky’s thought.

“I _was_ their son,” the boss, _Stark_ , snapped, leaning forwards slightly. His right hand lifted and pointed directly at Steve, a red and gold ring glinting on his curled middle finger in the midday light. “Until _you_ killed them last week.”

Though it was clearly only aimed at Steve, Bucky couldn’t help the flinch that shook his body at the wrath suddenly filling the room. And _fuck_ , did that hurt. After holding tense for so long, every time he moved, his arm became more and more unbearable to deal with as he sat there with it pulled tight behind him. He hadn’t been able to stop fidgeting, however subtly, since the hood came off, trying to alleviate some of the pain and aching. But every time he twitched, he jostled his bruised ribs and thus, a never-ending cycle.

And now, all of that strain was catching up to him wrapped up with a side of panic, reminding him that he missed his next dose of pain meds -it must be past 12pm by now- and leaving him travailing in hurt.

Steve’s quiet and broken voice distantly echoed through Bucky’s head, “…Mr. Stark, I _am_ sorry, _truly_ , but this…” but Bucky felt himself drifting with the throbbing and aching pains racking his body. The world suddenly seemed so out of reach, and he didn’t have the energy to worry or fear anymore. There was only pain, and now a blinding headache from squeezing his eyes so tightly, as if that could stop the agony taking over him.

Somewhere, seemingly very far away, someone began screaming.

With his eyes still clenched shut, Bucky was vaguely aware of losing his balance and falling forwards, collapsing onto his right shoulder. He hit the floor hard, but failed to notice as he tried to concentrate on his attempts to pull his burning arm, which was still tied tightly at his back, close to his chest in an instinctual protective manner. His ribs felt like they were about to snap and every breath was torture.

He recognised the faint feeling of someone gently touching his wrists and then suddenly he could move his arm. It pulled and burned his shoulder to move his limb to his chest, but the second it was pressed close to him, every moment that passed, it got a little easier to focus and breathe through the pain. He stayed curled in a ball with his eyes closed until the pain in his body eventually reverted down to a dull throb and terrible ache, his muscles only occasionally seizing in brief agony.

There were voices talking above him, but Bucky couldn’t make any words out. The world was still muffled to his ears, and he didn’t dare open his eyes yet. Nobody tried to touch him and he didn’t try to move, just floated dully in a haze of aches and pains, waiting for nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, the next chapter can either be a 3900-word monster OR I can move some stuff around, split it in two, and make it two chapters that are around 2000-2500 words each. Do you guys have a preference? 
> 
> 20/06/2019 - I've just added a little paragraph in chapter 1 and done some minor edits. You don't need to worry about going back and rereading it if you don't want to though. I think it flows a little better now, that's all. I will be doing the same for this chapter in the next few hours.
> 
> Have a wonderful week (or two, or three)!
> 
> xx


	3. dream maker, life taker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary - Tony shooting from 0 to 100 and back to 0 at super-sonic-speed like the questionably sane boss man that he is; oh crap Stevie is gone; Bucky probably wishes he ate an apple a day and also maybe had a pair of socks
> 
> Chapter title from _Smoke + Mirrors_ by Imagine Dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A 3900-word monster it is then…
> 
> ‘cream scheme’ might be the funniest thing I’ve ever written, thank u for listening, my entire self is garbage
> 
> Check the end notes for this chapter if you’re doubting Tony’s character and thought processes as well as Bucky’s actions because I’m a shit writer and can’t properly portray things with words (why am I even here?). For anyone interested, there is also a brief idea of the building they’re currently in and some details about my upload schedule.
> 
> Some visual inspiration before we begin:
> 
> Natasha:  
> 
> 
> Clint (edit: found a better photo. not exactly what I'm thinking, but close):  
> 
> 
> Sam:  
> 

** AES - 26th December 2018** (still)

Watching Barnes scream in obvious agony while fighting the ropes that bound him, Tony, for once, felt powerless. It seemed like there was nothing he could do without endangering himself by getting too close. At first, he had wondered whether it was a distraction, a ploy to get loose so he could attack Tony. But the look on Barnes’ face, body crumpled in torment, had Tony’s anger from a minute ago dissipating quickly.

Rogers, who had been thrown from Tony’s thoughts mere seconds after Tony had accused him of killing his parents, started begging for his friend to be released, for them to do _“something, anything.”_ Clint had to grab him by his shirt collar and hold a gun to neck to stop him rushing over to Barnes on his knees in some tragic attempt to ease his friend’s anguish.

It was only after what must have been the longest twenty seconds of his life that Tony couldn’t stand the screaming of the innocent boy -man, technically- anymore. As the boss of a fairly unsavoury work force, and someone who has spent many years perfecting the art of torture, this was saying something. Though his victims are usually guilty of something to some degree, of course, and Barnes had yet to become a threat or annoyance to Tony. He subtly nodded at Nat, who had been waiting for instruction.

She pulled out one of her many, many knives from who-knows-where, and carefully sliced cleanly through the ropes that held Barnes’ arms in the small of his back.

The reaction from the young man was immediate. His screaming dulled down to pained groaning as he stiffly pulled his arms to his front, a tremor running through him every now and then. Nobody made a move to touch him yet, though Tony noticed that Rogers had tears slowly dripping down his face as he stared at his collapsed and suffering friend, twitching in Clint’s grip occasionally, almost-but-not-quite making an effort to reach for him.

A minute of being freed and Barnes remained curled on the hard floor, completely still now. If it wasn’t for the subtle rise and fall of the chest, and the occasional quiver and whimper, Tony would have been certain Barnes had somehow died from the pain.

Looking down at him, it was obvious that he wasn’t all present, and Tony wondered just how high the level of pain had to be that it would take somebody to a different place. He had never managed to get any of his prey to wherever Barnes seemed to have taken himself. Perhaps an experiment for the future, when all of this mess has settled and he finds someone he deems worthy of his wrath.

No-one has spoken since Rogers gave up his incessant begging, the only sound the breathing of those in the room. Eventually though, something had to be said.

Clint, ever the reader of situations, was the one to break the silence with an awkward laugh-shrug-combo and a “Well, that was intense.”

Naturally, Nat slapped him upside the head and took a more serious approach. “All of the stress from today and the tension in his still-healing arm and ribs probably just caught up to him once the adrenaline in his system started wearing down. He’s likely been struggling to hold himself upright since we pulled him in here.”

“No fucking shit, lady. He was only torn to shreds _last week_ ,” Rogers growled from his restrained place on the floor. “Now you’ve gone and knocked him out, tied him up and sat him in a stress position. How do you _think_ he’s fucking coping?”

Tony stepped forward and backhanded the blond, making him gasp and spit a small bubble of blood to the ground.  
“Silence from you,” he hissed, placing a foot on the murderer’s muscled chest and kicking him over. He didn’t have the patience to deal with the man right now, abruptly deciding to save his plans for the next day when everyone, including himself, has a chance to recover from witnessing… whatever that was, and to give him some time to figure out what to do with Barnes.

“Take him to room 4A,” Tony mumbled at Clint, nodding at Nat to go with them as back-up.

Rogers fought, unsurprisingly. It took both Clint and Nat to pull him up and drag him into the hallway, all the while he was yelling for them to _“STOP, LET ME GO”_ and for Tony not to hurt _“Bucky”_ and promises that _“it’ll be okay, Buck. You’ll be okay.”_

Sighing, Tony closed the distance to the door and slammed it shut, blocking out the scuffles and the threats. He leaned his forehead against the hard wood and shut his eyes for a second, before a groan and a rustle of clothing caught his attention.

Standing back upright and turning, Tony saw Barnes, _Bucky,_ looking up at him, sitting up now but still clutching his left arm to his chest. Those big, icy blue eyes were so young and scared and lost. He must have been dragged out of whatever daze he was in by the commotion Rogers had made on his way out.

Tony made to step towards him, brain frantically figuring out what to say, but Barnes tensed and quickly pushed himself backwards along the floor until his back hit the desk with a thud. Tony winced at the same time he did and ceased his movements with his hands held out placatively as if Barnes was a scared animal, _which,_ Tony thought, _he was._

“Hey, uhm, James? Or…Bucky, is it? That’s what Steve calls you, right? Or Barnes?” Tony had never stuttered this much or seemed less put-together in his life. He cleared his throat. “Listen, you’re okay. I’m not angry at you.”

Those wide, innocent eyes squinted at Tony’s words, whether it was anger or distrust or confusion, he didn’t know. Perhaps all three.

“What… where… Steve?” Barnes mumbled broken words, his voice scratchy and hoarse from the screaming.

“He wasn’t being cooperative, but he’s okay for now,” explained Tony. “I don’t know how much you remember or were present for, but you yelled a lot and sort-of-but-not-really passed out. I imagine you’re still experiencing quite a bit of pain?”

Barnes’ only response was to clutch his injured arm tighter to his sternum, which happened to be an indirect answer to the question anyway.

Tony hummed. “I can give you something for it if you want?” he offered.

“Why are you doing this?” Barnes asked, instead of giving Tony an answer.

“I already told you. He killed my parents, and for that, he needs to pay up.”

His honest words only seemed to agitate and discombobulate the younger man further. Tony watched as he curled somehow tighter into himself and Tony’s desk, wincing at the strain on his ribs.

There was silence for a full minute until Barnes spoke again, his voice whisper-quiet. “We didn’t kill… accident… none of this makes sense,” echoed through the room, as soft as summer’s breeze and haunting as a ghost.

The words broke Tony’s heart a little, knowing this man, this _innocent_ man, would never have a normal life again. Because he couldn’t just let Barnes go; even just his name and face were more than Tony was comfortable with Barnes knowing. But he _also_ knew the faces of his most trusted henchmen, and would soon know too, that Tony was a ruthless businessman, boss and a killer of dozens. No, he definitely couldn’t let him go and spread words around, but he couldn’t murder an innocent either. Every life Tony had taken had a reason to be ended.

Taking pity on the stressed and worried student, Tony crouched to his eye level. “James,” he tried the new name, cautiously, “I’ve already told you it’s not you I’m angry at, and I meant it. I also don’t mean you any harm. I will explain everything later, but I really think you should get some rest for now, after the morning you’ve had.”

Barnes…no, he was James now, Tony had decided. _James_ said nothing, just continued staring with those wide, icy eyes, so Tony continued.

“I have a doctor. He can look over you and give you some pain meds, and then you can have a lie down. I promise that nobody here will hurt you. They are on my orders,” he added, slowly, to ensure his words appeared as truthful as he really meant them.

Still, only a slow blink and further curling-up in response.

Tony attempted one more time to get through, needing the kid to believe he was safe, at least for now. “Come on, James,” he said softly, holding out his right hand. “I’ll get you somewhere more comfortable, you’re okay.”

 

** JBB **

Despite the odd dizzy spell that brought with it the rough feeling of nausea, Bucky still had the brain power to know that trusting Stark was a mistake. But by now, Bucky had also figured out that Stark was a very powerful man with enough money to buy the expensive fabric covering his body and the lavish furniture decorating this office. He obviously had at least three loyal employees: the red-head, the blond, and another man, a Sam Wilson, who had apparently helped to lug Bucky and Steve’s unconscious bodies down a fire escape.

So, perhaps there really was a doctor who could help him. Bucky’s only hesitance was whether or not to believe what Stark had said about not being angry at him or meaning him harm. If this was true, what was he even doing here? Why wasn’t he at home with Steve, arguing over what to have for lunch and which TV show they were going to start watching next?

“What happens if I say no?” he dared to question, voice scratchy and slightly hoarse.

Stark looked thoughtful for a second, still squatted carefully six feet from Bucky. “Well, I need to get back to some paperwork,” the man nodded to the desk Bucky was leaning against, “but you’re welcome to stay in here if you’re quiet. Or I can put you in a room where you can get some rest for a little while. Can’t have you running about on your own though, I’m afraid.”

As if deciding for him, his arm twitched as another twinge of agony rose from the steady sea of constant ache. Bucky came to the quick decision that it would be better to take the risk of seeing this supposed doctor who might be able to help, over sitting uselessly in the perfectly clean office where there was no chance of escape.

Not that he’d be able to leave Steve here if he did get a chance; although, maybe it would be best to make a run for it and then send the authorities here to rescue his friend once he, himself, was safe? No, Steve could have been killed by then if he wasn’t already dead by now, and if Bucky didn’t make it out, then they’d both be screwed. More screwed than they already were, that is.

Okay, right…doctor. Bucky looked Stark in the eyes again and gave his answer, proud that his voice barely wobbled. A subtle, but almost warm smile appeared on Stark’s lips as the Boss reached out his right hand towards Bucky again, offering a steady support to help him stand.

Bucky refused in an attempt to preserve what little pride he had left (and also maybe because the man was still terrifying in his own, unique, powerful way), and instead spent a full minute and a half struggling upright on his own, leaning heavily against the desk and trying to breathe evenly through the pain.

Surprisingly, Stark allowed him to take his time, calmly standing near the door, his gaze never wavering. If Bucky wasn’t so distracted with his own being, he would find it somewhat unnerving, which was saying a decent amount considering the high level of discomfort he already felt about his and Steve’s current debacle.

Once he was sure he was able to walk without his knees collapsing, Bucky cautiously took the few steps towards Stark, gently cradling his left arm with his right to prevent extra arm movement. Standing near the man, it was clear that there was about an inch in height between them, the older man’s chocolate eyes just a touch above Bucky’s blue ones.

There was nothing he could do to quell his racing heart, which jumped further when Stark curled a hand tightly around Bucky’s uninjured bicep. The man ignored Bucky’s flinch and leaned in close to his ear.  
“I highly advise against trying anything that one might consider ‘stupid’, James,” Stark’s voice was hard, like it had been when he spoke to Steve before; different to the calming tones he had been using just minutes earlier to talk to Bucky.

Bucky shivered but didn’t answer, and stared down at his feet as Stark guided him from the room by his arm.

Even without the warning, there wouldn’t have been much Bucky could’ve done that would fall under the category of ‘stupid’. His body ached and he wondered whether his arm would ever stop throbbing and seizing in agony. He could barely even concentrate on memorising the way for some future strategic dash for freedom. The exhaustion wracking his body was so overpowering, he was mostly relying on Stark to remain upright and moving by the time they reached their destination.

This hallway was light, with four doors leading off it and scenting slightly of hospital, a smell that Bucky was all too acquainted with and, honestly, sick of. He imagined that the doors led to recovery dorms or medical drug caches, maybe even an operating room. The one they eventually pause in front of is wooden, though not the heavy material of Stark’s office. It was pale, inconspicuous; something that would be found in a normal house, rather than whatever kinds of dwellings rich, insane, mobster-type people lived in.

Stark pushed open the door after a quick knock -the politeness of which surprised Bucky, though he figures he should probably stop trying to predict the man’s behaviour if he continues to defy expectations- and then moved Bucky through into the room beyond before finally, _finally,_ releasing the strong grip on his arm.

Bucky heard the door shut behind him as he looked around the area, relieved that Stark had at least appeared to be telling the truth when he had said Bucky could see a doctor. The room was clearly some kind of medical suite; the floor tiled a matte snow colour, different from what Bucky had seen in any doctor’s office before but obviously easy to clean judging by the pristine state of it. The walls were painted a slightly darker cream, and the window blinds were darker still, also matched to the cream scheme.

There was a stainless-steel bench along the far wall, complete with a sink and set on top of a dozen draws that Bucky guessed held enough equipment to run the joint. All of them were lockable. In the middle of the room, there was a hospital bed that was seated in the upright position and covered with a layer of plastic, a body-length papery sheet on top of that.

On the wall next to the door was an office chair and a computer desk that was cluttered with papers and pens and mugs of half empty teas. It was oddly calming to note that the person who spent most of their time here cared so much about the state of their work station, on which Bucky couldn’t see a speck of dust, when it was apparent that their personal areas were usually kept in disarray.

A warm hand on Bucky’s lower back startled him back to the present.

Stark ignored his shiver at being touched, and gently guided him over to the bed and told him to sit down as he pulled out a phone and started typing rapidly.  
“I’ve contacted the doctor. He’ll be here in a minute,” he explained lightly, once he’d slipped the phone back into his back-right pocket.  
Bucky, confused by, but glad for the man’s suddenly less harsh demeanour, obeyed Stark’s request without argument, but took note of the phone pocket for later; if he got a chance to grab the phone and call for help, he surely would take it. 

Watching the clock on the wall and doing his best to ignore Stark, who was leaning casually against the wall with the window, Bucky noticed that: a) it was 12:47, which meant he was correct in assuming he had missed his meds, and b) the doctor took exactly one minute to arrive, as Stark had said.

The man himself entered at 12:48 and he was not at all what Bucky was expecting. He looked to be in his mid-forties, his brown hair, lightly streaked with grey at the temples, was a messy mop of curls atop his head. A pair of glasses perched precariously on his nose and his crumpled blue shirt was untucked on one side from his greenish-brown slacks. In his hand, there was a mug filled with some fruity smelling tea that would surely be joining the half-dozen others already sitting on the desk. Bucky assumed the man was having a lunch break that Stark hadn’t factored in, hence his knocking to an empty room and the doctor’s fresh drink.

The man in question smiled lightly at Bucky and pushed his glasses up to his eyes. “You must be James,” he said, holding out his hand to shake. “I’m Doctor Banner, but please, call me Bruce.”

Bruce’s voice, like everything else about him, was calm and unoffensive, exuding a safe aurora. Bucky was forced to remind himself where he was and how he got here. _Trust nobody_. He looked down at the hand offered to him, but didn’t reciprocate. Now that he was sitting in this medical suite, Bucky figured that these men would do whatever they planned to do, whether he was polite or not. He stayed silent for now.

Bucky saw Bruce’s eyes flick over his shoulder to where he knew Stark was still standing. The doctor must have got some kind of signal from the boss, because he straightened his shoulders with a small cough and made sure he had Bucky’s attention before speaking again.

“I hear you’ve got an injury that is causing you pain. Would it be okay if I took a look at it?” he asked gently.

“It’s only causing me pain because I got drugged, kidnapped, tied up, and made to miss my meds,” Bucky spat, clutching his arm tightly to his chest.

The doctor, for his part, didn’t react to Bucky’s hostility. He merely nodded and continued to speak in a soothing, placid voice. “I understand and I _am_ sorry that you are in this position, but while you’re here, if you let me have a look, I can help you.”

And _God_ did Bucky want to tell him to fuck off, but the only chance of escape was if he regained his health and proper movement. His bitterness and aggression dissipated instantly and he sagged a little where he was sitting. He nodded at the floor and tried to block out the feeling of Stark’s eyes on him.

“Okay, can I get you to remove your shirt?” Bruce asked, speech still soft, like he’s trying to keep Bucky as cooperative as possible.

With slow, stiff motions, Bucky peeled his Henley up and over his head, breathing heavily as every shift pulls on something else that hurts. There's a small intake of breath from just behind-and-to-the-left of him from Stark, who Bucky continued to pay no attention to.

Bruce seemed indifferent and unsurprised at the bandage wrapped around Bucky’s arm and the smaller ones pressed across his ribs. He simply took a step closer and reached towards the gauze with a quiet, “May I?”  
At Bucky’s nod, he began unwinding, slowing down as each wound is exposed to the air. One or two were bleeding sluggishly where a stitch has popped loose, but there doesn’t seem to be any major damage past the obvious, initial injuries.

After a brief and painless inspection of the mangled arm, Bruce concluded that there wasn't a need to re-stitch the ones that have torn, and covered those in question with a clean, non-stick pad, before he wrapped up everything in a new bandage to keep it all together with a light pressure.

The ribs were a similar story, with the doctor checking over them, pressing lightly and asking where it hurts the most. The diagnosis is simply that there are healing bruises which Bucky should try to rest as much as possible so they can fix. Bucky has to hold himself back from lashing out at Bruce again at that suggestion, and instead sits quietly, chewing on his lip to keep quiet.

When it was clear that Bruce had finished poking and prodding, Bucky reached for his shirt to pull it back on over his new dressings. The movement hurt just as much going back on as it did when the top came off and he couldn’t stop the whimper that emerged from beyond his lips.

“Well, you’ve done no more major damage, and it looks like those stitches have been in there a little over a week, so most of them should be ready to come out soon anyway,” Bruce summarised. “If you want, I’ll give you something for the pain, and then I recommend that you get some rest. I’m sure Tony will take you somewhere comfortable.”

Bruce sent a glare over Bucky’s shoulder, as if to make sure that Stark would do as he said and take his patient to an adequate napping place. 

Questioning whether taking drugs from the strangers _who had kidnapped him_ was a good idea, Bucky continued with his silence and glaring at the floor until Stark spoke up for the first time since Bruce had entered.  
“James, I think you should take the pain meds,” he said carefully, walking around to stand next to Bruce and into Bucky’s sightline.

His suggestion almost made Bucky refuse, just to be defiant and kick Stark up the bum. But it would only be him that suffered by not agreeing, unless they were lying and he was given something other than pain meds. _Would_ they hurt him after fixing him up and making sure he was okay? Nothing had physically hurt him except his own existing injuries since he had been drugged and brought here. If they weren’t lying, then the less pain there was in Bucky’s body, the less he would be fidgeting to get comfortable, and then he would heal faster and have a better chance at getting out. And he really has to get out.

All the thinking and stress was hurting his brain. Bucky turned his glare from the floor to Stark and accepted the meds, whatever they happened to be, while projecting as much hatred as he could muster. The boss looked smug and unaffected, which _really_ rubbed Bucky up the wrong way, while Bruce merely nodded and took out a new syringe and a small glass bottle from which he then pulled the liquid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony's bit:  
> Yes, in this AU, Tony’s a bit twisted (he is tagged as Dark Tony Stark…). In his mind, he truly believes that this entire thing is Steve’s fault because he was the driver of the car and is the reason that he no longer has parents. He _also_ truly believes that Bucky did nothing wrong because he didn’t have any control over the car at the time. This is why he has no sympathy for Steve, yet is so reluctant to hurt Bucky; he only likes seeing people hurt/inflicting hurt on them if they have done something to him or something that has negatively affected him. He doesn’t consider Bucky in this category, ergo, Bucky is someone to be protected or treated as a normal civilian. Unfortunately, Bucky is pretty and cute and soft, and Tony is developing a weak spot…
> 
> Bucky's bit:  
> For anyone who is a little confused or disbelieving about Bucky’s willingness to accept help, I did try to explain it a little bit but I’m not sure how well it came through. Basically, he’s just in the mind-set that “if I get as mobile and healed and healthy as possible, my chances of escape are higher”. He doesn’t really want to try to get out and only fail because he’s not physically ready, and then possibly never be presented with another escape opportunity again. Does that make sense? I hope so.
> 
> Building bit:  
> And finally, if there is anyone reading who is struggling to imagine Tony’s building, think large country house on a generous plot of land, with no close neighbours. Still modern and clean cut, but I’m living for the heavy wooden accents and the contrast of lighter wood in some places. 
> 
> Upload bit:  
> I’m going to upload a chapter once I’ve finished writing the two chapters that follow. That means I’ll put up ch 4 when I’ve finished writing ch 6, upload ch 5 when I’ve completed ch 7 etc. This is so that if I run out of places to take the story, I’ll have enough time to warn you guys and come up with a decent enough conclusion that you aren’t left hanging. There won’t be a set schedule… just whenever I get things done. As of right now, I’ve written chapter 5 and am working on chapter 6.
> 
> Okay, okay, that was a big one and I’m shutting up now. Thank you for spending your time reading this. I hope you have a swell rest of your day/night!
> 
> xx


	4. we all wore chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary - Steve’s back and he has zero (0) stabby objects; Bucky is a tired and angry boy and he needs a nap (and some fucking socks); Tony is scribbling down evil plans in his pink unicorn diary
> 
> Chapter title from _Fly On The Wall_ by Thousand Foot Krutch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consistent tense _whom_? 
> 
> The rewrite of ch 6 (because hey demons, I messed up big time) is well enough under way that I feel comfortable posting this… finally.
> 
> Some visual inspiration before we begin:
> 
> Bruce (add glasses sometimes, but not always):  
> 

**SGR -** yes, it’s still **26 th December 201** **8** , somewhere around 2pm

It was useless fighting to get back to Bucky, but Steve had tried his hardest anyway, yelling and kicking and punching at whatever he could reach with his hand tied together. The burlap sack had been roughly pulled back on his head at some point, obstructing his vision and letting only a smidgeon of light through. The two mobsters -that is the wild conclusion that he had come to about this place and these people- didn’t seem to have much trouble dodging the weak blows he was swinging and ignoring his words. His pathetic attempts were cut short with a sharp blow to his ribs followed by a shock of electricity that had him down on his knees and out of breath. From there, he was dragged with much less resistance, untied, and thrown carelessly into the room he now resides in.

Said room was plain, with white-ish padded floors and walls, a tiny light on the ceiling that he could never hope to reach, and a camera firmly secured in the top corner of the room above the door that was also too high to get hold of. A small and basic stainless-steel toilet sat on one wall with a miniature sink built into the top of it. Steve thanked whatever lord that currently _wasn’t_ watching over him that he didn’t have to use it right now.

From his position on the ground -back against the wall opposite the door with his knees stiffly pulled to his chest-, Steve could neither see nor think of a way to get out of this damn room, let alone the _whole place_. He could only imagine how big it really was.  
Though distracted at the time and robbed of his sight, he knew the walk/fight from the office room to this one was at least three minutes, which admittedly didn’t sound like much, but when he considers that it takes only a single minute to leisurely stroll through his _entire_ apartment…   
Maybe they’d travelled from one end of the building to the other or maybe they’d walked around in circles and he wasn’t that far from the office and Bucky after all. In the end, it doesn’t matter. There wasn’t much use pondering such things because he’s stuck here and not getting out until someone lets him.

There was nothing in the room that Steve could fashion into a weapon of some kind, nor was there a clock to count the minutes as they trickled by, seemingly slow as pitch. There was no entertainment either, the absence of which was becoming dangerous as Steve’s thoughts whirled around his head, slipping and sliding to more dramatic and horrifying conclusions.

He threw his head against the wall, unsatisfied at the lack of _thunk_ from the back of his head hitting the cushioned surface. Stark keeping him here didn't seem to make any sense. He should have either killed Steve by now, or let both him and Bucky go. The man hadn’t appeared to be all that bothered when Bucky had been brought in, even though it was clear his original intent was to get his mitts only on Steve.

The chances of Bucky being okay right now were low; the last Steve saw, his friend was awkwardly curled up on his side, finally quiet, but breathing heavily, his mind not quite focussed on the world around him. Steve knew that however and whenever he got out of this place, he wouldn’t ever be able to banish those pained, resounding screams from his mind.  
As low as the chances were though, there was still the slight possibility, no matter how small, that Bucky was alright. Maybe Stark helped him through his episode and had already sent him home with an apology, leaving Steve here to rot in this gross cell for the rest of his days. Somehow, Steve doubted it, but he could dream and wish and believe. It wasn’t  _Bucky’s_ fault that the car had crashed and killed Stark’s parents. It was his own and he knew that, despite his therapist, his mum, Bucky, and the police telling him otherwise.

It wasn’t like Steve  _wanted_  to be guilty on such an account, but he just couldn’t get past the fact that it was  _himself_  that lost control and  _himself_  that couldn’t stop from veering over the lane marking and into the Starks’ car. If one was talking legal terms, he wasn’t liable; the police publicly confirmed the entire affair as an unfortunate accident. But logically and morally, if the blame was going to land somewhere…

Steve, body and mind both raw and smarting, did his best to push any and all thoughts out of his mind. For now, there’s nothing he could do, trapped in his current situation. He leaned over until he was curled up on the floor. The best option he has is to try to get some sleep and rest, and hope that it helps him if and when he’s presented with an opportunity to get out of here.

 

** JBB **

As it turned out, the injection was, in fact, an administration of pain-relieving medicine. Bucky had been fidgeting nervously the entirety of his escorted walk, waiting for something to go horribly wrong with his body. Well… horribly _worse._

So, the surprise he felt when a huge weight seemingly lifted off all of his aching muscles was quickly smothered with a sigh of relief and a noticeable relaxation in his body. Noticeable enough for Stark, who had one hand firmly holding Bucky’s upper arm again, and who Bucky saw watching him out the corner of his eye with a grossly satisfied smirk plastered on his stupidly well-groomed face.

“Yeah, they’re extremely fast-acting and effective. Well ahead of the general market,” Stark began, speaking for the first time since they left the medical room. “Bruce developed them.”

Bucky didn’t respond, aside from a steely glare that probably didn’t quite hold the effect he wanted due to how exhausted he felt now that he had less pain keeping him alert. Stark must have realised he wasn’t going to get any conversation, because he let the subject die without too much ill will.

After a minute or so of walking down a complicated route of doors and halls and a couple of stairways that Bucky couldn't possibly remember, Stark pulled Bucky to a stop in front of a door similar to the one at Bruce’s office. Keeping one unrelenting hand on Bucky, the boss reached out with the other and pressed his three middle fingers to a sleek pad near the handle that wasn’t present on Bruce’s door. There was a whirring sound followed by a soft click that Bucky assumed was the door unlocking. He kept his eyes firmly on the door, ignoring Stark as much as possible as the man pulled the handle down and pushed forwards.

Bucky wasn’t sure what he expected, but the small room he now faced was pleasantly unlike any torture dungeon he’d ever seen or imagined, so he took a step through the doorway, relieved when Stark let go of him arm and didn’t try to push him in further.

The walls were a soft, light grey and the floor was a squishy carpet a couple of shades darker. A single bed took up the entirety of the left wall. Opposite him, the back wall was void of any windows and decoration, but a tiny desk and a simple but comfortable looking chair sat against it. A silent clock rested on the desk, showing the current time as 14:23. There was a door to the right that Bucky assumed led to the world’s tiniest bathroom, if it was anything like the size of this room.

Without being prompted by Stark, he took the four steps to the bed and sat on the edge, fighting the urge to lean over, curl up, and pass out straight away. Instead, he looked tiredly up at the man still standing in the doorway.

“What are you doing?” Bucky winced as he spoke, throat still sore from his mini-breakdown; apparently the pain reliever couldn’t do anything about the state of one’s vocal cords.

“I’m just making sure you are okay, and then I am going to shut this door, lock it -sorry kiddo-, and return to that repugnant pile of paperwork that I left sitting on my desk,” Stark replied as he leant on the door jamb and crossed his arms over his chest.

Bucky fumed, fury overtaking fatigue in a sudden rush. “I didn’t mean right now,” he hissed. “What are you doing with us here? Why are you messing us around like this? Where _the fuck_ is Ste--”

“James.”

The word sliced through the air so sharply that Bucky physically froze. He hadn’t realised how quickly and easily he was getting worked up; hadn’t realised he’d stood up again and was two steps closer to Stark than he had been a few seconds ago, with his good arm raised in aggression, his injured one tucked protectively, _pathetically,_ against his torso.

Despite his loud and harsh tone, Stark didn’t seem overly concerned about Bucky’s rapid change in demeanour. The boss was standing upright rather than leaning like he was just seconds earlier, but other than that, his body language was calm and unthreatened. That made him dangerous. Bucky knew he was a powerful man; he had gathered enough information from the hours in his presence to come to that conclusion. But seeing Stark so unflappable when faced with an angry, out-of-control prisoner, Bucky realised the man was also obviously confident in his ability to physically take down any threat posed to him, or at the very least, an upset and injured twenty-two-year-old college student. Said student had no chance.

Bucky slumped back down the bed, all of his momentary fight leaving him as quickly as it had bloomed. He was tired. He wanted this ordeal to end. He wanted for the floor to suddenly open up and pull him down, down, down into a maddening free-fall through the Earth’s core until he jerked awake from this nightmare, sweating and panting but safe in his own bed with Steve banging on his bedroom door, yelling at him to wake up for class because _“you slept in again, Buck…come on”_.

“James?” Stark’s voice was soft again, but it sounded like it wasn’t the first time he’d tried for Bucky’s attention.

He blinked, Stevie’s echoing calls fading away into nothing, and flicked his gaze up slightly to meet Stark’s eyes. Bucky couldn’t be sure, but perhaps they held a tint of concern. He didn’t say anything in response, just made an acknowledging noise in the back of his aching throat.

“Where’d you just go, kid?”

Bucky snarled with the last stores of his energy, “None of your fucking business,” and then when Stark, frustratingly, didn’t reply and instead merely continued watching him with those deep chocolate-y eyes, “Take me to Steve or get out.”

Observing the look on Stark’s face, Bucky knew the former wouldn’t be happening. So, he finally allowed himself to lie his exhausted body down, turning his back on the man and ending the conversation. It wasn’t even mid-afternoon, but Bucky had already written off today as a failure at best and his last day of existence at worst. He shut off his thoughts and, thankfully, immediately drifted away in a hazy cloud of medicated freedom.

 

** AES **

After taking one last look at James’ lithe and finally relaxed figure, Tony turns and steps into the hallway, pulling the door with him. He hated to leave the young man there in such a state, but he knew that there was no point putting pressure on him and forcing company right now. That would only be harmful to their relationship -whatever it may come to be- in the long run.

James had had a stressful day; something that Tony feels guilty and culpable for, however little part he had in the cause of it. Nat and Clint were _really_ the ones at fault since they’d so foolishly been caught out and had to bring James in, but they would be seen to appropriately in the not-so-distant future. Tony had done everything possible to increase James’ comfort since he got his hands on him because the smaller brunet truly did nothing to deserve being here, of all places, rather than back in his or Rogers' apartment doing whatever he does on a Wednesday afternoon.

But if that was the case, and there wasn't anything more that Tony could do given the circumstances, then why  _does_ he feel such remorse?

As Tony begins the walk back to his office, he sends a quick message to Wilson requesting (read: ordering) him to come and stand guard outside. Tony had designed the door and the locking mechanisms himself, so rationally he knows nobody can get in or out without his own permission, but something inside him needs to be reassured by the extra security. Both for James’ safety and for his own. Ex-Air Force pararescue airman Samuel Thomas Wilson is among his most trusted and currently available crew, and at the present time, the only man that Tony trusts to stand watch over his detainee. 

It isn't often that Tony Stark finds himself unsure of anything, but this situation has him doubting his every thought, his every move. The only thing he's certain of right now, is that Steve Rogers must die. Killing his parents’ murderer is the only way he can achieve any kind of closure for himself or grant them at least the smallest sliver of justice.

But with Rogers comes James, and that boy is muddling Tony’s mind.

~x~

With his elbows resting on his sturdy desk and his face firmly planted in his cupped hands, Tony takes another deep breath. The paperwork is as mind-numbing as always; who knew being a nationally known and feared super-power could be _so boring_? Of course, the people of North America don’t know _him_ , but they do know the ‘Merchant of Death’, which is not only the alias that was assigned to him by the country’s crime-fighting agencies, but is also the biggest of all the masks that he hides behind.

The two young’uns that he has shut away in different parts of his compound had been tapping away at his concentration for hours - since he left James to rest, in fact. Or days, if you count the time since the crash that started this all. Tony hadn’t got through more than a few pages before giving up, and now, they’ve burst through the wall he had put up and are on a full rampage around his thoughts.

Sighing, he lifts his head and reaches for one of his laptops - the one he fiddled with and upgraded to take care of all his security cameras around the country house that serves as his base of underground operations. He finds the correct files and pulls both open to show the feed from two rooms both on his screen together.

On the top half of his screen sits Rogers. He is in one of the two padded cells that Tony uses for the odd unruly visitor or captive. Rogers is a special case though, of course;  _he's_ only in that room so that there is the lowest chance of him hurting himself before Tony can properly get his hands on him. He can't imagine the anger and grief that'll fill his body should he get so close to finally ending the life of this murderer, and then have it all ripped away because Rogers managed to beat him to it. While James is still present and alive though, Tony doubts Rogers will go to such an extreme, hence he placed him in the padded room that isn't entirely soft walls; this one has a toilet and sink combo! And people say Tony Stark isn’t generous.

Rogers himself is not using said toilet, and is instead leaning against one of the walls, slumped uncomfortably to one side. He appears to be sleeping, or at the very least, daydreaming with his eyes closed. Every now and then, he jerks slightly, like there’s an invisible being poking him in the side. Tony guesses it must be the stress of the day settling into the man’s bones, not letting his body rest even as his mind takes an opportunity to partially shut down for a moment. There’s just the slightest bit of satisfaction that Tony feels, knowing Rogers’ own self won’t let him relax, keeping him on edge, uncomfortable, and likely, exhausted.

Below Rogers’ feed is what Tony is really interested in, though. James is in the same place that he was when he’d been locked in; lying on the bed and facing away from the door on his side, right arm tucked underneath his body, his injured left side angled to the ceiling, legs slightly curled up towards his bum.  The camera in this room is positioned above the entrance to the bathroom, so tiny that only a trained eye or someone who knew it was there could spot it.

This set of rooms Tony uses for his ordinary, non-violent visitors (though he tries not to have anyone here overnight too often - these rooms are for emergencies only). They're for the visitors with whom he does business with regularly, who understand the need for the lockable doors, who know it’s nothing personal and that Tony is being extremely kind by letting them stay here. Needless to say, every room gets a thorough once-twice-thrice over in a thorough check for bugs, bombs, poisons, weapons, electronics, etc. after a guest has left. One can never be too careful in this line of work.

Placing James in this room rather than the remaining padded cell was an easily made decision. Tony didn’t think James was in the frame of mind to hurt himself, especially after he’d accepted the help and medication from Bruce and himself earlier. He thought that the poor guy probably just needed a nap. Tony had seen the slump of his shoulders, the tiredness in his eyes ever since the collapse in his office. He wasn’t sure if James had even realised it himself, but the younger brunet had been struggling to properly string two words together by the time they’d made it to the bedroom.

Now, seeing him still supposedly asleep after -Tony glances at his watch- four hours, makes Tony’s heart ache a little, knowing that he is, at least, some of the reason for all the stress coursing through the kid.

Because as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, the few hours that Tony has just spent staring blankly at paperwork and trying to ignore his current debacle, has managed to convince him that _okay,_ maybe he played a bit more than a “little part”. After all, it _was_ him that sent Nat and Clint to pick up Rogers in the first place, which was, of course, the catalyst for James landing in his clutches. Even if the two could have prevented it by being more careful and observant in their collection job.

All Tony has to do now is figure out the most efficient way to gain James’ trust, to make him understand what is happening now and what will happen later, and how best to do these things without causing more pain to the boy than is absolutely necessary.

Considering the day that has been had by everyone, and what is likely going to be a tough few days ahead, Tony understands the challenge that it’s going to be. A difficult task that will probably cause him as much heart-ache and stress as James, because he really doesn’t want to hurt this innocent young mind and body more than it already has been injured and weakened. Ultimately, though, Tony Stark did not become the man that he is today, the _power_ that he is today, without making and carrying out hard decisions. Hard decisions through which he had learned that in some situations, to achieve eventual goodness some bad things must be done, even if his own self ends up taking some of the brunt and hurt. And this plight  _could be_ something good.

The fact that he knows he will be breaking James down before he even has a chance to gain his trust is something Tony is both dreading and looking forward to. Dreading because it is not how he wants to start off their relationship, and what he must do will certainly create a barrier between them that Tony will need everything he’s got in his armoury to pass through. Looking forward to because the event that will shatter James to pieces is what Tony has been waiting for since he first discovered who Steven Grant Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse the changes in tense. My main fault (among a great many smaller faults) as a writer is not being able to pick a tense and stick with it, and this is something that I continue to work on. I have been back and fixed a few bits that I noticed in the already-uploaded chapters but there might still be some that I missed. From now on, I’ll try to keep one tense per point-of-view, but I can’t promise that it won’t change from character to character as I feel like it.
> 
> Another upload bit:  
> Uploads will be, like I said before, done when I've finished writing two chapters ahead of what's already online. There will always be another update on its way unless I have specifically said otherwise. If an update is looking like it’s going to take longer than a month or so, I’ll do my best to let you know.
> 
> Please leave kudos and comments if you are enjoying this story. They mean so, so much to me and they keep me fuelled and writing.
> 
> xx


	5. toe your line and play their game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary - Steve is sassy, a dog person, and a chatty prisoner; okay seriously, Bucky still has no socks, but he does sort of get a stressful imitation of a hug; ah Tony, you stoic and dramatic bitch, just looming ominously in the background 
> 
> Chapter title from _Hammer To Fall_ by Queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we begin… while the POV changes have dates on them when necessary, this is for my own benefit and yours. The characters, unless they have access to dates and times and things in the story, are lacking this information.
> 
> I'd like to reiterate that I don't have anyone but myself proof-reading this, so if there are any mistakes or anything that doesn't make sense or seem right, please hit me up and I'll do my best to fix things.

**SGR - 27 th December 2018** (finally, a new day)

As much as Steve had intended to sleep and rest while he could, he hadn't managed to.

However long he’s already spent here in this room, each moment has been without a single wink of relaxation, his body picking up the stress that is steadily and perpetually swirling around his mind.

Steve has no idea whether he’s been locked up for three hours, five, ten, twenty-four. The lights haven’t changed at all to indicate whether it’s lunch time or the middle of the night out in the real world. _Days_ could have gone by for all Steve knows. Although he doubts it’s been quite that long, because, while he has resorted to having several slurped gulps of water and his stomach is gently rumbling, his body hasn’t begun to feel like it’s caving in on itself from a lack of food just yet.

He’s sure he got some brief moments that could perhaps be mistaken for restless sleep, but those scattered dozes have somehow made him feel less settled than he was when the door was slammed shut, sealing him in this forsaken chamber. The very same door that looks exactly like all of the walls do from where Steve sits on the inside. He wonders if he can even remember which wall the door is on. Steve knows he got up a handful of times to soothe his scratchy throat with metallic-tasting water from the sink, to pace for chunks of unknown time because he couldn’t stop fidgeting, and once, to awkwardly use the toilet when he just couldn’t argue with his bladder any longer.

So, the question is: Did he sit back down in the same place or did he find somewhere new to slouch and stare into the void? Answer: Who the fuck cares? Answer’s Answer: _Not me,_ Steve thought. _Not the fuck me_.

Lost in thought, he tongues at the small wound on the fleshy interior of his mouth where he bit his cheek as Stark slapped him. Only now does Steve _truly_ understand how people have been said to go crazy in these types of rooms. With nothing to do but twiddle your thumbs and stare at slightly off-white walls, enough time spent in one of these bad boys would surely knock some pieces out of place in your brain.

And now Steve is back to thinking about the time and the passage of time and ways to spend time. _Fuck_ , how long has it been already? Will his Mum even know something is wrong yet? Steve had been updating her on his and Bucky’s health every night since she’d last seen them at the hospital a few days after everything had calmed down. Bucky had been doing the same for his sister, Rebecca, though the Barnes twins generally talked more often than Steve and Sarah did. The two of them were practically inseparable, each one being the other’s only remaining blood-relative. There’s no way Becca hasn’t rung at least once since however long-ago Wednesday morning was, and Bucky _always_ answers her calls…

The wall Steve is leaning on suddenly begins humming, breaking him from another downward thought spiral, and before his body can obey the order from his brain to _get the fuck out of the way_ , said wall starts pushing on him. It stops after a second and nothing happens for enough time that Steve starts to think he imagined it.

Then he hears a sigh from behind the wall and a female’s voice drifts through, “Rogers, get off the door,” while a male quietly giggles in the background.

Steve jerks away from what he had previously believed to be a wall and moves to the other side of the room. When he’s standing there, looking as non-threatening as possible, the door swings open to reveal the red-headed woman of his nightmares (would-be nightmares, if he could manage to get to sleep in the first place) and her purple-clad dick-headed friend. It takes everything he’s got not to either sigh and roll his eyes or swear like a sailor for three days straight.

The woman steps into the room holding a small device that’s glowing an ominous light blue colour and a pair of solid-looking hand-cuffs.

This time, Steve doesn’t hold back his sigh. “Lady, I don’t know or care what kind of kinky shit you’re into, but for the love of nature and puppies and every other beautiful thing, _please_ don’t involve me in it.”

“Stop calling me ‘lady’,” she snaps. “It’s Nat.”

“Okay, _Nat,_ please leave me out of your bedroom games,” Steve snarks, watching carefully as she moves closer. The immense control this woman has over her body is obvious, simply from the way she holds herself. It's intimating to have such a confident and glaringly dangerous individual approaching him, and having been on the receiving end of her strength before, he isn’t looking forward to being in that position again.

His banter goes ignored, though if he takes his eyes off Nat for a slight moment, Steve can see her blond partner smirking as he leans against the door jamb, casually blocking the exit. Beyond the man is a ray of daylight streaming in through one of the high windows, which finally gives Steve an idea of how much time has wandered by. He’s assuming enough hours have gone by for this to be a new day and not a continuation of the worst Wednesday of his life so far.

By the time Nat reaches him, Steve has already resigned himself to the fact that he is definitely outmanned here and, while he can hold his own in a bar brawl, he has no real fighting techniques that can best these trained professionals. Tiredly, he raises his hands in surrender and turns so he can thunk his forehead on the wall. 

“I assume neither of you are going to tell me where we’re heading off to?” Steve mumbles as Nat cuffs his wrists behind his back and begins leading him out of the cell ( _finally_ , something to look at that isn’t padded off-white walls or stainless steel).

Surprisingly, the man, who has now grabbed Steve’s other arm and caused him to be marched away in a tight mobster sandwich, actually responds. “We are on our way to visit Mr. Boss Man and he’s gonna do the do and then I’m probably gonna have to tie everything up all neat and clean and evidence-free,” his voice had turned into a sing-song-y, mocking grumble by the end, like it was something he did often and something he resented.

“Clint…” Nat’s voice sounds like a tired warning, as if the two of them have had this discussion before, more than once.

The man, Clint, apparently, shrugs off whatever tension that is about to start building between the two of them. Steve can practically _feel_ the amount of effort he is putting into not responding properly, and decides to kill multiple birds with a single stone by distracting Clint, distracting himself from the unknown events in his near future, and poking around for some scraps of information he has been longing for since he was dragged away from his home.

“Where’s Bucky?” Steve huffs, reminding them both that he’s still here and listening as he’s bundled down a stairwell, probably on his way to some dirty basement where he’ll be cut into fifty-three pieces and set on fire.

“He’ll be along,” Clint vaguely states, shuffling his feet and half-heartedly glaring at Nat.                                                                 

“Look, Rogers,” Nat starts, ignoring Clint’s silent tantrum. “I want you to know that I don’t completely agree with what Tony is doing right now and that he is well aware of this fact. But he’s set in his ways and I’m better off following his lead. He will do what he thinks he must to make the world, _his_ world right again, and that means dealing with who he believes to be the killer of his parents. You’re it.”

Steve’s heart skips a beat of its racing rhythm as the trio continue down yet another hallway, this one lacking any windows to the outside, their path lit with bright fluorescent bulbs instead. The scenery cements his guess that they are now underground, the thought not bringing him any comfort.  
“But it was a car accident.” Steve surprises himself by admitting that fact for the first time… and maybe it was true? Crashes happen all the time, and unless a driver is drunk or high, driving recklessly, or lacking a license, there is usually nobody to blame and it _is_ classified as “an _accident_ ,” he restates, stronger now, defending himself, rather than someone else for once.   
Perhaps Steve _shouldn’t_ be blamed, because he didn’t mean to hurt anyone, let alone kill them. He didn’t _let go_ of control of the vehicle, he lost it. Not his fault.

 _Not my fault_ , he thinks, over and over again, pushing it deep into his brain. And if there was just the smallest chance that he, himself, was innocent, as he is so desperately trying to convince his stubborn mind, then how Bucky could even be considered in this matter is beyond Steve’s apperception capabilities. He can handle whatever it is that's coming to him, but not his friend. The same friend that’s still physically hurting from being thrown around in a metal capsule, crushed and dragged and knocked out. The same friend that’s now needing so much therapy, both to set his arm properly and to help him manage flashbacks and nightmares. No, his friend can’t handle any more torture, and Steve can't handle witnessing it.

“Bucky…” he gasps, re-entering reality and struggling to find the right words, heart already aching with painful anticipation of what is to come. “He didn’t do anything… he can’t…”

“Tony knows that,” Clint interrupts. “He won’t hurt your friend.”

Steve doesn’t reply, lost in his mind, worrying for his future and for Bucky’s.

The three of them eventually slow outside a door as inconspicuous as every other door Steve has passed by. There’s no sign that anything particularly ominous is about to happen purely based on this one fucking door. Steve knows differently, though, and each lingering second sends his heart racing faster.

“He won’t hurt him, but he’s not letting him go either, Steve,” Nat says, as they come to a complete stop. “James has seen too many faces and heard too many names and because of this, he is a liability not only to us and Tony, but to Tony’s business and operations as well.”

Steve is disgusted and confused and fearful at her words. Neither he nor Bucky deserve _this_. “How did you end up working for such a monster?” he spits.

The woman’s reply is as calm as he’s heard her, a scary amount of control and composure evident in her tone, especially considering the topic at hand. “Tony Stark is many things, but he is not a monster," she firmly states, obviously choosing her words with care. "I will not lie and say that he doesn’t have his moments of failed morality, but that man has done more for me than I can ever repay. He saved my life and gave me hope when I had nothing but the torn clothes on my back. I owe him my loyalty at the least.”

Before Steve can even think through her speech and come up with a reply, a strip of duct tape is slapped over his mouth, sealing it shut.

Clint raps on the door once and then pushes it open for them with a soft apology on his lips. Nat shoves him inside, following closely behind.

 

** JBB **

In a slightly chilled, windowless room, Bucky is curled up on the floor with his back against the wall. He’s sitting with his knees stiffly pressed against his chest, eyes locked on the strangely-placed drain at his feet, ass going numb from the position. He’s about as far away from Stark as he can be while trapped in the same enclosed space.

A handsome black man is standing beside him, fiddling with something in his jacket pocket and looking a little uncomfortable, a clear contrast to Stark’s laid-back presence. His restlessness and unease don’t do anything to ease Bucky’s thrumming anxiety over both his near and distant future.

The man had announced himself as Sam Wilson when he’d entered Bucky’s room at 09:32, and then requested that Bucky cooperate because _“I really don’t wanna hurt you, buddy.”_ With tension still high in his body, even after roughly nineteen hours of time alone, at least eleven of which had been spent sleeping, Bucky didn’t speak or put up a fight. He had allowed this newly-introduced-Sam-Wilson-person to gently ( _why is he being so careful and kind?_ ) apply some padded cuffs to his wrists that held his hands in front of his body. They were tight enough that he couldn’t slip free but loose enough that there was no strain on his injured arm, shoulder, or ribs.

For the duration of the journey from the previous room to this one, Bucky had only made use of his voice once, to ask where Steve was and if he was okay. Sam hadn’t replied verbally but a definite grimace had formed on his face, distorting his charming features. He’d given a gentle squeeze of Bucky’s upper arm and continued guiding him through the maze of corridors and stairways.

Added to the mysteries of _where the fuck am I_ and _who the fuck do these people think they are_ and _what the fuck is happening,_ was the complete absence of other human beings. In all the time he had been in this place, even on the several migrations from room to room, Bucky hadn’t seen a single soul pottering about in the hallways or conducting any sort of business whatsoever. In a building this big, and under the assumption that Stark had more than three employees, Bucky had found the emptiness remarkable and unnerving. It was definitely one of those grim thoughts that were best dealt with by pushing to the side and trying hard to forget about. Which is what he’d done.

Their lonely two-man convoy had ultimately wandered into this room, a drab and unfurnished -save for a long, metal table- prism roughly 10m x 10m (~33ft2). It was lit by fluorescent lights like the corridor outside, and made of cold, unforgiving concrete floors and clean-cut, white-tiled walls. Immediately upon entering and sighting Stark, Bucky had tugged against Sam’s hold on him and been surprised when the man allowed himself to be dragged along. He’d chosen a place on the wall that was close to the corner with a tap built into it, but still far enough away that he wasn’t completely trapped. Then he’d sunk down the wall to his present position, all while staring at the almighty man who stood across the room from him.

Now, somewhere between five and ten minutes since Sam had escorted Bucky inside, nobody is speaking or making a sound.

Stark has yet to address either of them, aside from the slight nod he'd directed at Sam when they entered. He appears to be waiting for something, though Bucky isn’t sure what, and frankly, he’s too nervous to speak up. The boss is watching him closely, leaning casually against the empty table that has obviously been wheeled from its original place to be against the wall where it is. Stark is dressed similarly to the previous day; a neatly pressed white shirt paired with some slacks -this time a deep maroon colour-, and a black belt and shoes. He’s forgone a waistcoat today and has the sleeves of his shirt carefully rolled up so that his lightly muscled forearms are on show. He looks intimidating with his crossed arms and bored expression combined with the ever-present confident aura that continues to drown the air around him.

Bucky chokes silently when his subconscious suddenly raises the thought that Stark reminds him of his twin. His decent, gentle, beloved sister. The fact that Bucky has even _made_ that comparison makes him feel sick, but seeing Stark and the way he so easily holds the room, makes Bucky think of all the times he's seen Becca effortlessly command the attention and adoration from her peers, and how often he felt a sting of jealousy over her spunk.

That girl doesn’t have a single bad bone in her body and Bucky admonishes himself and the world that two people on opposite ends of the good-evil spectrum have anything in common. One person that Bucky loves more than anyone and anything else, and one that he would consider wishing dead if he had such power. That’s a fairly heavy thought, but what can he say? Bucky never claimed to be a good person. How could he when the two people he’s closest to are Rebecca Penelope Barnes: Charity Volunteer Extraordinaire, and Steven Grant “I save baby birds and help elderly people cross roads in my time off” Fucking Rogers.

 _Oh God,_ Bucky misses them both so much.

He wonders where Steve is - if he’s healthy, if he’s _alive_. He makes a desperate attempt to lighten the darkening thoughts in his mind by imagining the smoke billowing from his friend’s ears as Steve fumes over the unfairness of this entire catastrophic situation that they’ve both found themselves in. It doesn’t help in the slightest.  
He wonders if Becca has called yet, if she knows by now that he’s not okay. Bucky missed their usual bickering-catch-up-health-update yesterday because he was a little busy being kidnapped and drugged by what might be some kind of mob (he isn’t exactly sure yet). It’s 50/50 odds whether or not Becca will have already tried calling today, but it doesn’t really matter. Eventually she will realise something is wrong when Bucky never answers, and then she’ll contact the police and maybe he and Steve will actually get out of here alive.

Bucky thinks about how Becca would be coping if it was _her_ in this position and how _he_ would be coping if it was her in this position. Then he hates himself because how could he even imagine her being in this awful place with these awful people, stuck in these awful hand-cuffs and really fucking hungry all of a sudden. When was the last time he ate?

There’s an abrupt thud on the door, which then slowly, sinisterly swings open into the room. Bucky is instantly on edge, forgetting his appetite and sitting up straighter, his neck and back rid of the slouch from two seconds ago. Next to him, Sam has also adjusted his stance, no longer leaning on the wall, now standing alert. Stark has done the same.

All three people already in the room are looking towards the door when Steve himself stumbles through.

A strangled noise of relief rises up Bucky’s throat, but he catches it before anyone other than Sam can hear. Steve’s hands are obviously being held behind his back by some kind of restraints that Bucky can’t currently see and there is a piece of silvery duct tape covering his lips, but his best friend looks physically unharmed, if not a bit rumpled and unrested.

Trailing Steve’s partially-defeated, partially-stubborn form into the room is the tough, red-headed woman that Bucky mostly remembers from Steve’s apartment at the dawn of this trial, and who’s firm but careful hold he knows from their walk to Stark’s office. She holds herself high, higher than Steve at this point, but Bucky notices a tightness around her mouth that gives away her true uncertainness.

The last to join the ‘party’ is the woman’s companion; the man with the slightly purple leather jacket, blue eyes, and messy blond hair. He lumbers in, lacking the smirk Bucky had seen on his face every time he’d looked at him.

Taking note of how sombre everyone, except Stark, looks, Bucky confirms his suspicions that this room is a severely unfavourable place to currently be. Still, nobody has said anything. If it weren’t such a serious and potentially life-threatening situation, Bucky is sure the continued silence would tip his awkwardness scale off the charts. In any other capacity, he would be among the first to crack some lame joke or blurt out something so horrifically stupid that it got the present company laughing and talking again. 

As it stands, anxiety and dread are the only things floating around his feelings bank and they’re doing it in excess.

Steve’s eyes find Bucky’s once he takes in the accommodations. They seem to soften and swim with the same relief that Bucky feels. His friend looks like he’s going to lurch forwards to get to him, but stops at a jerk of his arms from the woman.

Unable to hold himself together for another moment, Bucky picks up the slack Steve left behind and quickly pushes himself to his feet in a graceless struggle that takes a precious few seconds longer than he had anticipated, thanks to the cuffs. By the time he’s standing and desperately starting to run over to Steve’s position to give him some sort of hug or some words of reassurance or _something_ , Sam is on him.

Two strong arms wrap quickly and tightly around his waist, stopping him in his path. That’s all it takes for Bucky to panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, everyone is out of character. It’s an AU. Get over it. 
> 
> Rebecca Penelope Barnes because I did some research and could only find her listed as Rebecca P. Barnes-Proctor. Penelope was the first ‘P’ name that came to mind and I don’t think it sounds that bad all up, so… 
> 
> Their ages:  
> I haven't worked them out exactly because they aren't necessary to the plot (for now), but I guess Natasha and Clint are 30-ish, Sam is around 35, and Bruce can be between 40 and 45? Yep, let’s go with that. We already know that Tony is 36, Steve is 23, and Bucky is 22, but I’ll clarify anyway so all the ages are right here if you need to check. 
> 
> I might stray into everyone’s backstories a little in the future if they’re something that becomes relevant and if you guys would be interested in reading about them. Feedback is always appreciated. (:
> 
> These chapters are all getting pretty long, huh? Oh well. Until next time…
> 
> xx


	6. all you're giving me is fiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary - featuring a chaotic cast that includes Steven Grant Rogers - a man who canonically ignores his fear so that he can be a smart-ass, and who lives up to that spectacularly in this chapter; James Buchanan Barnes - a man who has too many feelings and not enough control (or socks); and Anthony Edward Stark - a man who is too theatrical for his own good, someone should definitely calm this queen down
> 
> Chapter title from _Everybody Talks_ by Neon Trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lightest of warnings:  
> Bucky refers to himself as ‘crippled’ in his thoughts. I know that some people hear and use this word as an insult despite it having a legitimate definition of “a person unable to walk or move properly”. I'm adding the warning because I don’t want anyone to be hurt or offended by the negative usage.

**JBB - 27 th December 2018** (still)

Sam’s muscled body doesn’t budge as Bucky twists and turns, the man’s unforgiving grip increasing his stress levels and blaring the alarm to _escape, escape, escape_.

As far as Bucky can tell in his heading-to-hysterical state, Sam isn’t actually trying to take him anywhere or further injure him in any way. It appears as though the strong arms around his middle are only to keep him in place and stop him running like he had been trying to do. But, driven by a trapped, primal instinct, Bucky continues to hit and smack them anyway, the padded cuffs not doing anything to restrain or dampen his urge to get to Steve.

Despite his fight and franticness, he isn’t yet so out of his mind that he can’t recognise the importance of taking note of the state of his upper body and the pain messages that are being sent out. Bucky _knows_ he can’t afford to do himself any more physical harm if he’s going to have any chance of breaking free from the hold that Stark currently has over his longevity. He’s managing for now, but whether it’s the adrenaline coursing through his veins or whether he really is okay, he can’t be sure.

That doesn’t matter though, because the limbs feel like they’re tightening and if Bucky can’t get out of them, if they never let go, then he’s not even going to make it out of this room, much less this entire setting, and then Steve will be left to deal with these monsters alone and… alone… and…

“James,” Sam huffs over his shoulder, the man’s heavy breaths tickling Bucky’s neck. “Calm down, buddy, you’re okay. What’s up, huh? What do you need?”

The calm manner of Sam’s voice and the way he says _“need”_ rather than _“want”_  get Bucky to take a gasping breath. He doesn’t quite relax, but he stops actively kicking and punching at the body caging him in, instead performing half-hearted pushes and uncomfortable squirming, panting and still keeping up a weak effort to break loose.

There are lots of things that Bucky _wants_. A juicy-ass burger for starters, because he can’t remember the last time he ate. Then he wants a way out of this hellhole so that he can go back home as soon as possible and return to his ordinary, stressful-but-not- _this_ -stressful life. And after that’s done, at some point in his mortal existence he’d really like to own a pet, but who’s got the funds when college fees exist.

“Stevie.” That’s what Bucky _needs_ right now.

He feels Sam’s head turn in the general direction of where Stark must be. Bucky can’t actually see the boss himself, because he’s fully facing the door, hanging almost limply in the arms encasing him and staring at a shocked and heart-broken Steve. A _doleful_ Steve, who is stood betwixt his escorts, both of whom are looking overly stoic, like they’re purposely schooling their expressions and body language into something unreadable.

Busy observing the serious looks on the trio’s faces, Bucky didn’t hear Sam say anything or communicate with Stark at all, but he must have done because the man’s arms start to gradually loosen their hold on Bucky’s waist. Bucky glances down at his bound wrists and torso, waiting.

“I’m gonna let you go, okay, kid?” Sam speaks kindly, like Bucky is a shivering, terrified baby reindeer or something. Maybe he is. Fuck knows he’s cold and scared enough to start trembling pathetically at a moment’s notice. “You go to Rogers, but go slow.”

Bucky nods, still breathing heavily from his efforts, still glaring down, and watches as his waist is released, toned limbs gently freeing their caught prize.

There’s nothing and nobody holding Bucky back.

Except curiosity and doubt.

Slowly, like Sam said, he moves. But he doesn’t go to Steve, not straight away. Bucky doesn’t know if he could stand getting so close to comfort and then have the hovering boss rip it from under him with a cruel laugh at him for being so gullible and naïve that he would think Stark would genuinely allow him something good.

Without a glimpse at the blond for fear of seeing an unfixable look of brokenness upon his face, Bucky spins lightly on his heels to raise his eyes at the boss himself.

Stark is still near the table he was leaning on at Bucky’s arrival to the room, but he is now standing upright, not supporting himself with the metal bench any longer. His face is expressionless, a mask of protection over whatever gears are truly turning under the hood. Well, his _face_ is certainly plain, but his _eyes_ …

Those cocoa-shaded orbs of emotion are swimming, no, _drowning_. So much so that Bucky can’t pick everything apart and figure out what the man is really feeling. He only gathers that there’s a presence of grief - _obviously for his parents_ , Bucky thinks-, and that alongside the despair, there seems to be some kind of tamped-down sliver of anticipation and a layer of concern, though Bucky isn’t sure what that the latter is doing there. The man is clearly in his element and it’s unnerving to note the solicitude because _what does this mean?_

In the time he has spent in Stark’s company over the past day, Bucky has seen him behave like two completely different people, from the look in his eye to the tone of his voice, even his body language. The main difference is when he interacts with Bucky, compared to when he interacts with Steve. Bucky knows why the man hates Steve so much, even if he doesn’t understand it, but he can’t figure out why he isn’t treated with the same dislike.

Bucky can’t put his finger on what the boss’ deal is either. At the moment, all he’s got is this: Stark is deranged, wicked, and looking for a power-trip. As far as Bucky’s concerned, those traits are not a good combination to form a part-way decent, socially acceptable human being.

He continues watching Stark as Stark returns the favour. Bucky isn’t exactly asking permission to go to Steve so much as silently and desperately begging the older brunet not to stop him again when he does. He needs to prove to himself, and maybe to Stark as well, that he isn’t completely powerless, nor is he submitting to the other man’s wishes.

There is no movement, apart from a light shuffle behind Bucky that he assumes is Steve’s nervous footwork, his shoes scooting along the concrete. It anchors him, the noise. It reminds him why he’s staring down what could potentially be a slow and horrible death (if there isn’t one already waiting in his near future) and why he’s doing his best to stand tall and hold his ground as he does so.

Unbelievably, Stark is the one to end the stare-off. A tic of his lips followed by the slightest of nods - one that Bucky might not have noticed had he not been so closely analysing every one of the man’s movements, looking for some kind of sign.

It feels like a victory, no matter how small, and Bucky will take it, desperate as he is for a fragment of hope and goodness.

He whirls around to face Steve again, much quicker than he’d been advised. Ignoring the other people in the room, for they meant nothing to him right now, Bucky strides to Steve as fast as he can manage, raises up onto his toes and pushes past his body’s pain to lift his arms over Steve’s head. His restrained hands lock in Steve’s nape and Bucky breathes out, face tucked into the juncture of his friend’s neck and shoulder, trying not to think about the uncomfortable pull of his stitches and the building pressure in his shoulder.

He knows that Steve can’t properly hug him back because _his_ hands, unlike Bucky’s own, are tied behind him. The blond moves his head to the side to rest gently on top of Bucky’s, and the amount of comfort that small gesture is able to provide overwhelms the brunet. He sniffs, clutching tighter.

“You’re okay, Stevie, it’s okay, I’m okay,” Bucky whispers, over and over, trying to bolster and soothe Steve even when he, himself, is not reassured. “We’re gonna be okay. Just gotta tell these crazies that we did nothin’ wrong an’ then maybe we go home. Can we get a cat, Steve? Or a dog, I don’t mind. We’re gonna be fine. Could name her Winnie. Do you think Mumma would mind if I named a dog after her?”

Bucky’s well aware that he’s rambling, words pouring out of his mouth at speed, but Steve is here and Steve is a safe place, and Mumma may only be dead three years, but he doesn’t think she would mind, especially if it was a cute dog. Fuck waiting until after college and student loans; when Bucky gets out of here, he’s getting a fucking dog, “isn’t that right, Stevie? We’ll get the cutest, fluffiest dog,” he continues mumbling, hugging tighter and tighter, never wanting to let go, never wanting to look Stark in the face again because he’s an insane man and he isn’t a safe place, not like Steve.

Speaking of Stark, a light cough from behind Bucky shocks him out of his rapid babbling and most recent descent into panicked madness.

Wincing at the stretch and pain, Bucky removes his arms -the left one stiff and becoming increasingly difficult to work with- from around Steve’s neck, but that’s all the slack he gives. He looks up into his friend’s face and sees tears lining those delicate blue eyes that are usually so full of faith and righteousness and warmth. The sight rips at Bucky’s heart and makes him wonder what the hell was happening to Steve while he was left to his own devices in that tiny but comfortable room.

“Sorry, sorry.” Bucky blushes, a little embarrassed at his loss of control when faced with even the tiniest slice of solace in this dry, dry desert of distress. He lightly places one hand on the side of Steve’s face and slowly peels off the tape with his other, trying not to wince with Steve as he does. “We’re gonna be fine,” he says firmly.

Steve doesn’t look convinced. He shakes his head, trembling under Bucky’s touch. “No, Buck,” he murmurs softly, briefly glancing over Bucky’s shoulder and then back into his eyes. “Listen, you gotta get out as soon as you can, okay? Just get out and disappear and don’t look back.”

Bucky is confused. Steve is speaking quickly in a hushed tone, almost begging him. “What? We will, of course, Steve.”

“Any chance you get! They’re not gonna-” is the last discernible word to leave Steve’s lips as a feminine hand snaps over his mouth and a more masculine hand settles on Bucky’s right shoulder.  

It’s Sam that guides a listlessly resisting Bucky back to their previous place on the wall and out of the way, while Steve is reunited with the tape and pushed to the rough centre of the room by the leather-wrapped motherfuckers that brought them both here in the first place.

“Great!” Stark claps, speaking for the first time. “We’re all here. Let’s have a quick introduction so that we are all on the same page.”  
The boss steps forward so he’s a little closer to the group that’s somewhat smattered across the room. He points at himself then, and Bucky has a moment to think that that is one of the lamest things a person can do before he remembers _just_ who this so-called lame person is and what he, presumably, has the power and capability to do.  
“I assume that in the last day or so, nobody has forgotten that my name is Anthony Edward Stark,” he says, a curt smile on his face as he somehow projects himself so it appears that he’s talking to both Steve and Bucky at the same time even though they’re in different sightlines.  
Without turning away from them, Stark points at Sam, who’s still standing stoically next to Bucky, and his smirk transforms into troublesome grin as he declares, “Sammy Wilson.”

Sam sighs, and though the man’s face is out of view, Bucky can imagine him rolling his eyes to match his vocal exasperation.

When Stark gestures to Bucky next, he’s surprised, since everyone present obviously knows who he is. Evidently, the boss has his own, very unique ways of conducting… himself… his business… his everything, so Bucky stays put and shuts up, trying not to give away too many of his churning emotions. He’s labelled as “James or Bucky or Barnes or something. For once in my life, I’m not certain.”

His fear of the man’s unpredictability keeps him from retorting that _‘actually, I’d rather you don’t call me anything and just completely forget about my entire existence instead.’_

Stark continues with his introductions, unaware of Bucky’s constant inner unrest. The scary lady with the stunning hair is apparently just “Natasha”, and the brawny blond is “Clint Barton: human disaster”, to which the man in question gives a lazy salute and a lopsided grin.

Steve is last to be on the end of a well-manicured pointed finger and announcement. He’s just simply, “Steven Grant Rogers”. It’s said with a sneer that has obviously been given zero efforts to conceal. If hatred and disdain had vocal cords, they would sound like Tony Stark saying Steve’s name.

Bucky, having resumed his upright foetal position at the base of the wall, is not at all impressed with the dramatics at play. He’s nervous and uncomfortable and cold; he’s worried for himself and for Steve; he’s confused about Steve’s words. Most importantly though, he doesn’t want to be here a second longer and he doesn’t know how to get out. Oh, and this powerful, yet still power-hungry man won’t _shut the fuck up_. Stark is currently giving a riveting (not really) speech about the moment he discovered his parents’ deaths.

 _Welcome to the club, pal,_ Bucky thinks, with a healthy sprinkle of venom, _but I didn’t kidnap an innocent college student and his crippled college student friend when my parents died._

It has been three and a half years since George and Winifred Barnes orphaned their then nineteen-year-old children. Bucky still misses them and wants to make them proud, but he knows that what Stark is doing would not be the way to go about it. Avenging his parents by ruining the lives of two other people… he can’t even comprehend going as far as this egotistical maniac has already gone and might still be going.

In fact, if Bucky didn’t keep getting sucked into his inner tornado of thoughts, he might have managed to just get up and walk out the door with how much Stark is absorbed in himself and his story. The man is clearly a narcissist, that much Bucky knows for sure. And okay, maybe his poorly executed escape attempt wouldn’t actually work, but it’s nice to imagine that it could.

Bucky looks up at Sam to see how interested _he_ is in whatever words are making up the constant background drone that is the boss’ voice, only to find Sam looking back at him. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, seeming to not be paying any attention to the rest of the room. Bucky supposes Sam doesn’t really need to be listening to Stark, since his only job appears to be making sure his charge doesn’t do anything harmful or otherwise stupid. He gives Bucky a sad smile that’s gone before Bucky can even blink. It makes him wonder, just for a fleeting moment, whose side Sam is really on.

The sound of Stark’s expensive shoes landing on the concrete floor enters into Bucky’s awareness and pulls both his gaze and his thoughts away from Sam. Both of them look on, Bucky rigid and on edge, as Stark, apparently done with his one-sided conversation approaches Steve where the blond is kneeling on the floor glaring up at him. The duct tape is ripped away quickly, Steve not even having a chance to flinch back from the hand that does the deed.

“So, do you have anything to say?” Stark’s voice is angry. Wherever his monologue had ended up must have really got him riled.

Watching Steve as he formulates his response -something that Bucky has not known Steve to do ever in his entire twenty-three years of life and their fourteen plus years of friendship-, he nervously waits for their situation to get worse. No way will Steve say _anything_ that could possibly de-escalate the standings.

“Yes,” Steve begins, voice confident and steady, keeping his eyes trained on Stark. “You are absolutely, categorically, positively, un-equivocally insane.”

Bucky sighs internally, concern and dread tumbling over each other in his recently over-used box of negative emotions as he begrudgingly observes the events unfolding before him.

A sharp, swift slap is delivered promptly to Steve’s face as Bucky continues to fight the urge to get up from his useless place on the floor next to Sam’s boots, knowing how dire the consequences would be if he were to allow himself to move.

“All you’re doing is proving me right, Mr. Stark,” Steve says, a slight lisp that indicates he bit his tongue, and _come on, will he ever learn when the correct time to shut up is?_

Another slap, this time to the left cheek. An audible wince escapes Bucky without permission. Though Stark is right-handed, his non-dominant hand still makes the sound of skin-on-skin bounce around the room, almost deafening in the near-silence of everyone else present.

It is taking every ounce of logic that Bucky possesses to not push past the dismay bubbling inside him and storm over there to rip Stark a new one. And then turn to Steve and rip him a new one, too. It’s almost as if his friend _wants_ to further antagonise the crazy man and turn what are already unlikely survival rates, into impossible ones. The reality of how unfairly low the chances they have of leaving this place alive are starting to dawn on Bucky as he watches the continuing back-and-forth between his best friend and his kidnapper.

“You seem like a thorough man and so, I assume you read every single one of the reports. You should know, then, that the police, with the word of everyone that spent hours upon hours analysing the evidence, found nobody to blame. And that’s what I have to say.” Steve finishes his piece strongly, though his face and mouth must surely be stinging like hell.

Thankfully, _thankfully,_ Stark doesn’t deem this most recent response enough to warrant another slap. He replies, “It doesn’t matter what the reports say. The only thing that I care about is that _you_ were driving, _you_ were the one in control, and _your_ car crossed the lane markings. Because of that, _you_ killed my parents. That’s what matters.”

Stark is still composed and seemingly unruffled with his level and controlled voice, while somehow also sounding angrier than Bucky has ever heard anyone speak before. The man doesn’t need to yell to get his point and his stance across. The amount of discipline that he has over his body to not show more feelings than he has to, especially as strong as those feelings must be, is astonishing to Bucky, who happens to be _that guy_ ; the guy that cries when he sees a puppy because he can’t stand the cuteness, and has a breakdown when his fried chicken is just too good to comprehend and eating it would be a crime against the poultry gods.

But… Bucky feels like he’s done a good enough job holding himself together as much as he has so far, considering. Well, except for the thing in the office, which Bucky _hopes_ he never has to go through again because that might actually break him. More than he is already broken.

“I didn’t mean to kill them! How could I?!” Steve’s speech breaks slightly as his volume and desperation increase. Bucky’s heart cracks along with it as he fidgets non-stop, still trying to prevent himself from up-and-running over there, fuck the consequences.

“I don’t give a shit! You did, and now they’re dead,” Tony snaps, his voice also getting louder and harsher with each word, his steady mask of indifference slowly cracking down the middle. “You could have been more attentive, more considerate, a better driver.”

“You think I don’t know that?!” Steve is yelling now. Bucky knows that guilt is a sore spot for his best friend. It always has been. “You think I haven’t spent every waking second and most of my unconscious ones, thinking and dreaming about that night? Reliving it, over and over. My best friend is scarred for life because I wasn’t careful enough.”

The attention in the room turns to Bucky, who startles at the mention of himself and follows it with a wince at the pull on his left side. As if just being witness to this vicious verbal battle wasn’t intimidating and unwanted enough, now he has to take part. Because he can’t leave Steve to fight this on his own and he knows it; he’s never been able to do that. Not the very day they met, not ten years ago, not five years ago, and certainly not now, when their lives might actually depend on it.

“Steve,” he speaks up, dredging courage from somewhere, proud that his voice doesn’t shake. “Stevie, it’s not your fault. You know that I don’t think it’s your fault. None of this is because of you.”

He uses a sizeable chunk of his recovered valour to turn his gaze to Stark and glare at the man standing tall, confident, and furious over Steve. The simmering urge to get up from his reasonably pathetic imitation of an egg rears its head again. Bucky so badly wants, no, _needs_ to position himself at Steve’s side again and stand up to the bully, but he knows, with a subtle glance up at Sam who looks ready to grab him if he so much as twitches in the wrong direction, that that will not be happening.

All Bucky gets in response from Steve is sad eyes meeting his own and a whisper that doesn’t reach his ears. He thinks it was an apology, though he can’t understand what for. He knows Steve has been blaming himself for Bucky’s injuries, but he thought they’d gotten past it with the amount of times Bucky has told him that he doesn’t hold Steve accountable for what happened. Steve even seems to be starting to consider and believe his own innocence now that he’s being confronted by Stark, fighting back for his pride.

Bucky never asked for Steve’s atonement though; he didn’t need it last week and he doesn’t need it now.

“James.” Stark is looking at him too, but Bucky doesn’t give the older man the satisfaction of eye contact. He keeps his gaze on Steve, trying to think but not knowing what to say to make everything better. “It _was_ his fault. How could it not be? He had the responsibility of keeping you and everyone else out of danger while he was at the wheel and he failed to--”

“Wait,” Bucky rapidly cuts in before Steve can try to make things worse by running his mouth. Surprisingly, Stark humours him. Bucky sits up straighter as he tries to look more courageous than he really feels, ignoring the tingling of Sam’s careful eyes on him, tracking every movement, ready to seize him. “Why does it have to be anyone’s fault?” And his voice is shaking wavering now, but he ignores that too. “Why can’t it be the road’s fault for being so slippery, or the government’s fault for not salting the roads, or that tree’s fault for just fucking being there? Have you never heard of the word ‘accident’?”

He’s trembling, anger filling his pores and unease rattling his bones.

The way Stark is looking at him, like he can’t quite fathom that Bucky dared to offend his intelligence and convictions, is frightening. Bucky has no frame of reference to figure out what is going to happen next. He almost expects the boss to just come over here and strike him, like he did to Steve. But that doesn’t happen. What _does_ happen, though, is the twitch of a very slight, very sad, very malicious smile on Stark’s lips.

“I know what you two believe, but like I said before: I don’t care. He killed my Mum.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOoooooOooOoOoohhhhh… a cliff hanger… again. Well done on surviving that tremendously long chapter! I’m not super happy with this one; I had a lot of trouble writing and making it work but I think it’s as good as it’s going to get. Ch 7 is better, I promise, and it’s an absolute shit-storm as well, so if you’ve been wanting me to speed things up, you might change your mind soon. 
> 
> Oh, here’s a quick note that I keep forgetting to add:  
> We will find out more about Tony’s life and his business later on, so hang tight! I think I’m working with the idea that he’s a business man that owns a large company as a cover for illegal tech and weapons trading. Maybe he helps out and supplies goods to some dubious characters that we might get to know in the future… 
> 
> Announcement:  
> I’ve got two new works that I’m currently writing! I’m not sure when they will be ready to post, but I _can_ tell you that there is one porn-y one shot and one four-chapter canon-divergence piece. 
> 
> Progress update:  
> I have ch 7-8 complete and about to be edited. Ch 9 has been started and ch 10-16 are roughly planned out. At this point, I think _In Restless Dreams_ will end up being somewhere around 20 chapters.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading!
> 
> xx


	7. there is nothing left of you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary - fucking oops, sorry; where’s Sebastian Stan at? I need him to play another crying homosexual with cute, fluffy hair; I repeat once more: fucking oops
> 
> Chapter title from _Anthem Of The Angels_ by Breaking Benjamin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning:  
> In the end notes - they contain major spoilers \- read the first few lines if blood and gore and death are triggering for you. If those things don’t bother you, then I wouldn’t recommend spoiling this chapter for yourself by sneaking a look. It is there if you need though, because I don’t want to ruin anyone’s day but not preparing you for what’s to come.

**AES - 27 th December 2018** (still)

“I know what you two believe, but like I said before: I don’t care. He killed my Mum.”

Tony, fighting with his voice to stay steady, turns away from the angry, pleading look on James’ face, and gives his attention back to the blond kneeling before him. He gestures for Nat and Clint to move back a few metres; it isn’t like Rogers is going to get far, trussed and on his floor like he is, and Tony needs some space.

As he looks down at the murderer, Tony does regretfully have to take a moment to admire Rogers’ bravery and stubbornness. Even in the facing the hopelessness of his current situation, he’s still sticking with what he believes and continues to strongly argue his case. James too, though he hasn’t managed to hide his fearfulness and hesitation as well as his friend, which almost makes his contribution _more_ laudable.

While witnessing their reunion, Tony had deduced that Rogers clearly has some idea about what is going to happen and that James doesn’t have even the slightest inkling of what the future holds. The youngest is openly grasping onto some misplaced hope that both of them are going to make it back to their cute little college lives with their classes and their friends and their parties.

That poisonous optimism very nearly makes Tony want to put this off even further just to prolong the absence of utter heart-break that he knows will soon be written all over James’ face. But he can’t. Another day of anticipation distracting him from his work, and another day of Rogers breathing the air that his parents no longer can… no, Tony needs to tie up the loose ends as soon as he’s able so that he can start to move on properly. He’s had time to grieve; now is the time to act.

But before he takes the next step towards emotional freedom -regarding his parents, at least-, Tony nods to signal Sam that he’s ready.

On cue, James is lifted to his feet. There’s a flash of raw, unhidden fear in his eyes as he allows himself to be manhandled. When Sam has made sure that he has a tight enough grip on the wrist restraints, he stands alert and still next to him, easily moving with the James’ fidgeting limbs.

Tony knows that James is a wild card when it comes to Rogers, has seen it with his own eyes. He doesn’t want the kid slipping away from Sam in a rush of uncontrolled instinct and panic that will transport him too close to the action. It’s bad enough that Tony needs James to witness this, to know what Tony is capable of and what happens to those who cross him.

This is the most convenient way for him to instil the necessary fear of disobedience into this young and mouldable mind. It’s the easiest and most effective way to prevent James from standing up, turning on him, and wrecking his career, his empire, and life in the future.

That doesn’t mean Tony _wants_ him there though. Keeping him as far away as physically possible, while still able to see and hear is the best compromise he can come up with.

He stops for a moment and collects himself, pushing James and all related thoughts from his mind. This will be easier if Tony isn’t presently thinking too hard about how much trauma he is about to very knowingly and somewhat eagerly inflict on the younger brunet.

Tony reaches around to his back pocket, which he has carefully kept out of sight from the rest of the room up until now, and pulls out his father’s old hunting knife that he spent hours cleaning up and sharpening for this day. There’s a special kind of significance in using his dad’s steel to cut down the lowlife who killed him.

Looking Rogers in the eyes, Tony leans over the suspiciously silent man and raises the weapon. It seems strange that the blond, as young as he is, has already accepted his fate, but that’s certainly what Tony reads from him when there’s no flinch at the light touch of the blade on his cheek. He decides not to inspect that anomaly too closely now that he’s finally about to bring himself closure.

“Stop!” James screams, startling Tony from his concentration and making Sam flinch, tighten his grip, and then quickly reach over to wrap his free hand in the back of the younger man’s shirt for another point of contact and control. James ignores the added restraint holding him back.  
“Stop it, you said you wouldn’t hurt us! You said you weren’t angry… didn’t you? Y-you promised… why…?” he trailed off pathetically, huge grey-blue eyes welling with tears not yet spilling over. His body has started subtly trembling, whether in fear or from the icy bite of the room, Tony isn’t sure, but it makes him want to go over there and do his best to offer reassurance.

Not that there is much to reassure; what is about to happen will be truly horrible for James to see and be a part of, Tony is sure of that much. He only wishes it wasn’t so crucial in ensuring the deference that he requires from James to make sure both of them remain safe and unharmed in their future.

“Oh no, kid, no. I said I meant _you_ no harm,” he says, clearly. It’s the best that Tony can come up with to soften the blow, but he still desperately needs James to understand that “ _him,_ on the other hand… well, in my position it’s part of my duty to ensure that when someone crosses me, everyone else knows what happens to them. This is a dangerous survival game that I’m living, snowflake, and I don’t plan on going extinct.”

The endearment didn’t mean to slip out, but Tony couldn’t help it, seeing James standing there shaking, helpless and scared like he’s caught in a blizzard. An out of control snowflake swirling through the air as nature takes its course and does with him what it must, not a second thought as to where that little snowflake will land.

But then, he supposes, it doesn’t really matter where it lands. Tony will catch it. Maybe his touch will eventually melt the frozen surface that he’ll feel at first contact; the icy glare that he’s receiving now and the many more that are likely still to come, until James, his snowflake, thaws for him.

 

** JBB **

“Don’t-” Bucky can’t even get his protest out, heart hammering in his chest harder than it’s ever pumped before. He knows there are tears in his eyes but he determinedly focusses on keeping them from falling for the sake of not showing Stark weakness while he can help it.

Stark whips the sharp threat away from Steve’s jowl and his voice snaps loudly through the tense atmosphere. “Enough! No more talking. 

Bucky gasps and recoils at that, even though he’s across the room and as far away from the weapon-wielding bigot as he can be. Steve, though, doesn’t waver once, and it’s _his_ face that’s about to be sliced up.

In all of the time that he’s spent watching Steve stand up and fight for other people, Bucky has never witnessed him do the same for himself. Now, he fears that selfless righteousness is going to cost Steve something more than a broken nose and bruised knuckles, and there is absolutely nothing Bucky can do to stop it. He has no more words that will be heard or listened to; no more chances to talk Stark down.

Perhaps the worst part is that Steve isn’t doing _anything_ to help himself. Since the argument with Stark, which he apparently lost, Steve hasn’t exerted a single force to fight back or try to get away. He’s just been kneeling there at Stark’s feet, waiting for fate to take its course.

 _Why?_ Why won’t he resist? It can’t be because he holds himself responsible. Steve wouldn’t do that to him, would he? Steve wouldn’t let this man, _this stranger,_ strike him as a form of flagellation, right? _Right?_

Bucky doesn’t know what’s about to happen, but he knows that Steve is about to bleed. How much? He’s unsure. It doesn’t matter because his friend shouldn’t be harmed at all, and yet he will be, and Bucky can’t do anything to stop it.

Agonisingly, Stark stays true to his word and says nothing else. Bucky watches him lower the knife back down to Steve’s face and a single, uncontrollable tear finally escapes his weakly standing barrier. Stark moves the knife lower still, so that it rests against Steve’s neck.

Then Bucky realises exactly what the boss is going to do.

Bucky lurches forward, captured in Sam’s grasp once again. He barely notices that Natasha has come to help with his containment. He pants and grunts, trying to escape with more desperation than he’s ever felt before as he sees Steve close his eyes and part his lips to exhale calmly, the way Bucky knows he always does when he’s terrified and making a show of being brave.

An anguished and frustrated scream erupts from within Bucky just as Steve’s last, meaningful breath leaves his.

** ***stop reading here if you read the warning*** **

The dagger is handled smoothly and confidently. It enters Steve’s neck at an angle to the left of his windpipe and then slashes quickly across, severing the flesh and cartilage easily. Blood sprays out immediately, a few ruby drops following the trajectory of the knife as it exits its target, most of the torrent spurting forwards and trickling down the flawless, untouched skin below the gaping slit.

A mutilated howl somehow worms its way through the mangled tissue, echoing around the room that otherwise only holds the cries and pleas that Bucky is uselessly yelling to the world.

Stark has stepped back to position himself out of the impressive territory that Steve’s blood is rapidly claiming. The bastard doesn’t even have a speck on him. The knife that rests in his hand slowly sheds Steve’s life force from its point, one bead splashing onto the ground every second, like clockwork.

Bucky drops to his knees in an attempt to evade the oppressing arms. The position makes it harder than before, but he continues battling to get free anyway because maybe there’s something he can do if he gets to Steve fast enough.

None of his efforts make a difference. His performance is proving futile, probably due to the comparative strength of his detainers and the still-healing mess that is his left side. He’s left with no option but to give in to their controlling holds, to kneel in place and sob helplessly as his best friend bleeds out before his eyes.

And so that’s what he does.

Exhausted and frozen and breathless, Bucky stares as Steve crumples to the floor, weak from losing so much blood. He listens to the harsh crack of his blond head impacting the concrete and the soft gurgles that come from his torn throat as a tide of thick, sanguine fluid blocks his airway. Those sounds, Bucky _knows_ , will be forever ingrained in his mind.

** ***start reading again here - there’s blood mentions but nothing horrific*** **

Steve’s face is tilted towards Bucky, like he was making some attempt to turn to him when he collapsed. His straw-blond hair is soaking up blood from the puddle he’s lying in, the sticky substance clinging to every strand within reach. Those warm sapphire eyes are wide open, looking straight into Bucky’s own ice-tinted blues and portraying nothing but fear and hopelessness. His mouth is opening and shutting over and over, as though he’s trying to say something, _anything_ , but can’t find his voice.

That’s when Bucky breaks. He coughs out a stifled sob and shuts his eyes, unwilling and unable to watch the last sliver of vitality leave Steve’s body. He feels like a coward, weeping with his chin tucked into his chest, no longer fighting against Sam and Natasha. He’s not strong enough to look his best friend in the eyes and pass on comfort in Steve’s last, horrifying moment and Bucky knows he will forever regret that fact, his mind already set up with the permanent sight of those hauntingly beautiful windows to Steve’s good and gracious soul as they start to shut, never again to open.

Tears begin to cascade down Bucky’s cheeks, joining their fallen leader that couldn’t be stopped earlier. He feels them track steadily towards his jaw, a cool draft catching their wet trails and leaving several frozen paths descending his face.

Bucky doesn’t know how long he gets to himself to cry and tremble and wonder which god he pissed off for this to be his life. He’s unaware of time passing, just as he’s unaware of the world beyond the blooming pink insides of his eyelids. Lost in his grief and unashamed wails of misery, pride be damned, Bucky doesn’t hear Stark approach.

He cowers when two fingers gently touch his chin, and then he realises that he can actually move because Sam and Natasha have let go. What’s the point of trying to get away, though? He’s only going to end up the same as Steve.

There’s no energy in his system to resist when his head is tilted upwards against his will. Inside himself, Bucky wrestles with the natural instinct to open his eyes. There isn’t much he can do to get Steve back, but he can prolong the image behind his eyes that shows his friend scrambling to hold on to mortality, if it means he doesn’t have to look at the man that made that struggle necessary.

Predictably, Stark’s next words are, “Open your eyes, James.”

And Bucky tries to resist, he really does, but then Stark’s fingers are tightening and it feels like his jaw is going to bruise or break under the pressure, and so he blinks open his damp lids to find himself staring up into the face of evil personified.

Didn’t they always say in the stories that Lucifer was supposed to be the most beautiful of the angels? What a stupid, insane thought to have.

“There you are,” Stark smiles, the small wrinkles around his eyes folding with the movement. It’s a soft smile, a happy one, and Bucky can’t help but think it doesn’t belong here. Not in this room with these people and his Stevie’s dead and lonely body. “James, can you listen to me?”

No, no, _no._ He can’t. _He won’t._

With Stark towering over him, Bucky can’t see anything beyond the starch-white shirt and flawlessly-groomed facial hair. Even coming off a bloody and gruesome murder, the boss is one-hundred-percent composed. It makes him feel somehow sicker, his stomach churning even though there’s nothing inside for him to throw up.

Bucky turns his head, fighting with the grip on his chin, trying to look at something that isn’t this cruel joke of a human being. The fingers slip through the shiny surface that the tears have made of his skin, and Bucky gets his freedom. He lurches back and rolls over his ankles so he’s sitting on his bum with his feet in front of him. Evidently, it’s no better than where he just was because he doesn’t even get the chance to retreat further before his back is hitting two legs that are planted rigidly on the ground.

At least now, Stark is a few steps away, rather than touching him with those same filthy hands that ripped his best friend from the face of the Earth. Any moment away from the boss is a kindness.

Bucky looks up slowly, once he’s sure Stark won’t go for his face again; the boss seems content to stand and stare down at him, waiting for him to make the next move. Directly above and behind him, through his tears, Bucky sees that it’s Sam whose shins he’s pushed up against. The man isn’t paying him any attention; he’s just staring straight ahead with his hands behind his back, as solid and still as a statue. Bucky knows that doesn’t mean he’s not ready to grab him at a moment’s notice though. _He_ won’t provide support.

To his left, Bucky notices the presences of Natasha and Clint, who have apparently stuck around to watch the aftermath as if the actual event wasn’t enough entertainment. Or maybe they remain because that’s where Stark wants them to be. Either way, their postures are closed off and they aren’t looking Bucky in the eye, or even in his direction at all. _They_ won’t provide support.

He has to face this himself. His own, crying, grieving, scared, shocked, tied-up self.

Stark has moved back an extra foot or two, no longer taking up Bucky’s view of the rest of the room. For a second, just as he turns his head and looks past Stark’s legs at exactly the right angle, Bucky catches sight of his best friend. The blond’s body is still slowly seeping fluid out through the hole in his throat, adding to the puddle that surrounds his head like a crimson halo.

And he realises that, actually, he can’t do this. There’s no way he can get out of this room before Stark and his crew have their way with him. Bucky doesn’t want to live a life without Steve, but he doesn’t want to _die_. Especially not here at the hands of this delusional killer.

Every time Bucky thinks he’s managed to calm down enough to get hold of his thoughts, he remembers what has literally _just_ happened in front of him and what is left lying just a few metres away as a result. How truly alone he has found himself, how uncertain is future looks, and how little power he has.

More panic descends on him, crashing into him like a tidal wave of terror and hopelessness. He scrunches his eyes against it, like that’s going to help, and bows his head into his curled-up knees to restart his tormented sobbing. The display of weakness is one more thing he no longer has control over.

His movement though, causes his uninjured shoulder to slip between Sam’s knees slightly, tilting his shuddering body at an angle. The solid warmth feels good and comforting, and even though Bucky knows the man that provides it has just aided in his kidnapping and Steve’s murder, Bucky can’t help but lean into it. Crying loudly and messily, upset and inconsolable, he brings his bound hands up to clutch at the unmoving leg. He knows he looks pathetic, wailing and snivelling into this stranger’s jeans, but he doesn’t care. The people around him don’t matter. _None_ of this matters. Stark will surely kill him soon anyway, and then Bucky will become nothing and _he_ won’t matter.

Strangely, that thought hits some sort of calming switch inside of him. It eases his heaving sobs to hiccups and slows his racing tears to a gentle stream. He leaves his face buried in the fabric of Sam’s jeans, keeps his hands clutching the same leg, but allows his mind to slowly clear and empty itself.

Too many emotions -a pitiful collection of ups (relief, mostly) and far too many downs- have forced their way through Bucky in the past twenty-four hours. The whole endeavour has left him overwhelmed and exhausted, both physically and mentally. He _knows_ he isn’t in full control of his faculties. That’s the only explanation he can come up with as to why he’s bouncing so quickly from total panic to dazed to a howling, snotty mess, and back again.

As of now, he sits in a limbo between desperately needing comfort and not wanting it from anyone within five kilometres of this place.

Torn and having nowhere to go, physically or in his mind, Bucky stays at Sam’s feet, not letting go or moving his head for fear of seeing Stark again. Sniffs and whimpers escape from him uncontrollably every time he thinks of anything other than the rough feel of denim that has become his lifeline.

 _Steve._ Sob. _Stark._ Fingers tighten their hold. _The blood that dripped from the knife._ Eyes squeeze shut so he doesn’t have to see. _Sam and Nat and Clint watching him break down._ Cry and hiccup as more tears fall. _Becca, at home, waiting for him to call._ A quick, soft shake of his head and sharp teeth biting his lip so he doesn’t make any more fucking sounds and is that blood he can taste, _oh fuck,_ it’s _everywhere_ -

 

** AES **

The young brunet is visibly getting himself too worked up again. Tony understands that James is experiencing a lot of stress among other overwhelming emotions, but he needs him to stay calm before he gets himself hurt again. There’s already a trickle of blood welling up from his plush, trembling lips.

“James?” Tony speaks as lightly as he can, cautious to keep any negative emotions appearing in his voice.

“No!” James screams, trying to wiggle further into Sam and, presumably, away from him. He doesn’t get anywhere, too big to fit through the gap and too small to push the veteran over.

It’s heart-breaking to see the amount of fear written over James’ body in flashing, neon lights. It’s fear that Tony _knew_ would show and _thought_ he was prepared for. He wasn’t ready for that fear to only be directed at him though, which it is, considering the way James’ weak hands are grabbing onto Sam like that man hasn’t also slit throats, tortured people, and done dubious things not just for his country, but for himself and for Tony.

Tony doesn’t want James to be afraid of him, but he went into this knowing it was a likely reaction to his necessary venture. It will be the first big hurdle in getting the boy to feel like he belongs here. And he _does_ need to belong here because Tony can’t bring himself to kill James and letting him go is obviously completely out of the question.

He reaches out for James again, and this time the younger allows his face to be tenderly held even as his hands and his body continue to clutch and push into Sam. Tony looks him over to make sure there aren’t any pressing injuries.

Tears are everywhere, steadily falling from those huge steel coloured eyes. There’s snot dribbling down James’ cupid’s bow, smeared from the contact with Sam’s jeans. His lips are quivering with the struggle to hold back cries and his entire face is shiny with grief, but none of this takes away from his looks at all.

“You really are pretty, James,” he murmurs with the hope that something positive and reassuring will help to calm the clearly devastated young man, perhaps pacify him some so that he’s able to listen to what Tony has to communicate. “Even when you cry, I must admit.”

His well-meaning praise does work to get him a response, but not one he wanted. A fire seems to spark in James’ reddened eyes and Tony can feel the jaw beneath his fingers clench.

“You’re a m-monster.”

The words hurt. They’re spoken with a stutter and barely above a whisper, but they cut Tony somewhere deep inside where he never expected simple syllables could reach. That’s what James thinks of him right now. Tony needs desperately to correct this; to make the crying, hurting soul before him understand _why_.

“I’m not always a good man, but I’m not a monster. I hope that one day I’ll be able to prove that to you. Maybe you’ll even believe me.”

“Wh-what? One day?” James’ big eyes get wider and he tries to pull his face away again, but Tony doesn’t let him this time. He can’t let the other go back to Sam while _he_ still has things to say.

This might actually be the messiest conversation Tony has ever had. Tony happens to have had several messy conversations in his life, the long list of which includes one particularly disastrous talk with the current Yakuza kumicho during their attempts to take New York… people _died_ right there in the room. And this is still worse because Tony cares about this boy and his feelings, and he wants to make it better, but that’s where he’s falling apart.

He needs to find a balance between his stern and powerful work persona and his true identity - a man who doesn’t want to hurt innocent people any more than he wants to die himself. But this isn’t really the ideal topic to be deliberating on for that perfect ratio to be discovered.

For now, he sticks with facts and his gut and a kind, gentle tone to help ease the harshness of the words. “Well, I’m not going to kill you. I don’t _want_ to kill you.” Those are facts. “But you don’t think I can release you back into the wild, do you? After what you know and what you’ve seen? It would endanger my career and my life, and the lives of a frankly ridiculous amount of other people who rely on me.” That’s his gut telling him to be honest and lay it all out on the table for James to see.

“What about Steve?” James’ voice doesn’t break this time. He has shown before that he’s strong around Rogers. He visibly drew confidence from the man’s presence earlier; perhaps he’s still standing up for him now, despite the circumstances.

“What _about_ Steve? He’s gone, kid. Like my parents are.” Okay, maybe he hasn’t quite finished grieving, even though he’s slaughtered their killer. Tony still feels a bit angry, on-edge and uncharacteristically unsure when he thinks about them, but he knows it will get better now that Steve Rogers isn’t hanging over his head.

“But-”

“Gone.” Tony asserts with finality. That’s the most important thing to get into James’ head. That, and the certain reality that he is safe here and he has the tools to build a new life when he’s ready. Within reason, of course.

James jerks at the truth, slight tremors vibrating his body, heavy and controlled breaths filling his lungs like he’s trying not to panic. “C-can I at l-least say b-bye?”  
He’s more composed than he was a few minutes ago, but there are still fat teardrops leaking slowly down his cheeks, and he’s stuttering again.

Tony hesitates, taking James in once more. The poor kid is a mess. He just watched his best friend die and he’s actually somewhat managing to hold himself together in the face of the man who did it. As much as it seems like Tony doesn’t understand those things, he does. He is human, after all; it doesn’t matter how other people see him.

He doesn’t answer, not at first. With his free hand -the one not gently cradling a stubbled, wobbling chin- Tony reaches into his front pocket and purposely ignores the responsive cringe and helpless whimper. James takes a sharp breath when he sees the tissue that Tony pulls out.

The boy blinks at him and doesn’t fight as Tony quickly but thoroughly wipes the upset fluids from his face. It’s such a precious and tender moment. Their first _real, meaningful_ interaction. He wants it to last but it’s cruel to leave James hanging on.

Tony throws the used tissue to one side once he’s cleaned off James as much as he can, and then stands, letting his hand fall from the sharp jaw. He doesn’t need to say anything, he doesn’t need to spoil this loaded silence. He nods in the general direction of Rogers’ body behind him, and takes a step to the side.

 

** JBB **

Bucky falls heavily to his knees in the warm pool of Steve’s blood that surrounds his remains. He can feel the mess saturating his sweatpants, seeping through the cloth to settle against the skin of his legs. It takes everything he’s got left to ignore the disgusting sensation and the intense pairs of eyes that he knows are glued to his form.

He only succeeds in pushing everything away because his sole important concern at this moment is Steve. His best friend’s lifeless corpse, breathing and animate not five minutes ago, now a husk lying limp and abandoned by all but Bucky.

It’s almost too much when Bucky brings himself to look up from his knees to inspect Steve’s face. Those periwinkle eyes are only half-closed, as if the effort needed to shut them completely is what finally ended him. Bucky whimpers and leans over, carefully reaching out with his bound hands. A few of his tears land on Steve’s motionless chest, but their marks aren’t noticeable in the sea of scarlet. Using the lightest touch that he can manage with his violently trembling hands, Bucky closes Steve’s eyes the rest of the way. It feels final. That simple, gracious gesture just severed the last hanging thread that Steve had to this painful, mortal world.

Bucky’s own eyes glaze over and he collapses next to Steve’s body, not finding the strength or will that he needs to hold himself upright. There’s not enough left in him to care that he can feel the blood cooling beneath him, dying from lack of purpose.

He understands why this room is so cold and why the floor is concrete and the walls are tiled. He gets why there is a tap in the corner and a drain nearby; why there’s a metal gurney and why there aren’t any windows. This is a torture room, _a murder room_ , and it just claimed its most recent victim. Perhaps two, if you count the way Bucky’s soul has fluttered from his body, leaving him an empty casing for this cruel and unforgiving life to play with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers! Warnings:  
> A short but somewhat graphic description of a throat slitting performed by one major character on another. Skip between the bolded asterisks if you think it might upset you.
> 
> Author’s note (stop here if you haven’t read the chapter):
> 
> Disclaimer:  
> I love Mr. Steven Grant Rogers very much and I didn’t want to do him dirty like this (but obviously I did because I wrote that shit). I actually composed this entire story based on that killing scene (!), which I planned out a year or so ago. I did consider changing it up once I had begun expanding Steve’s character, but ultimately decided to stay true to my original idea.  
> This was always going to be about Tony and Bucky in the end, and introducing, developing, and then killing off Steve was the best way for me, personally and in this instance, to add another layer of depth to the characters involved.
> 
> I sincerely hope that Steve’s death doesn’t deter you from sticking with me for the rest of this journey. There are plenty of chapters, major events, and the introduction of even more characters still to come.
> 
> Alriiight, how are we all feeling after this chaotic mess of a chapter? 
> 
> xx


	8. stuck in reverse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary - with Clint’s help, Sam picks up what’s left of Bucky; Bucky tries and fails and tries again to process what he witnessed; Bruce is an angel-bear
> 
> Chapter title from _Fix You_ by Coldplay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning:  
> There is a character dissociating in this chapter, as well as descriptions of panic attacks and some minor blood and vomit mentions. Please move forward with caution if these things would normally negatively affect you. 
> 
> Look! A new character POV! Just trying something new, don’t mind me.
> 
> I’m a bit (read: really, really) behind schedule. I’m only half a chapter ahead (instead of two whole chapters) and it’s stressing me out but here I am… posting anyway.

**STW - 27 th December 2018** (still)

Sam doesn’t know how the boy is still functioning. But then again, it doesn’t look much like anyone is home behind his eyes, so maybe it’s only his body that’s currently active and operational.

James is blankly staring down at the stationary corpse that used to be Steve Rogers. He’s silent but for the occasional huff, sniff, and whine as he grieves and non-verbally farewells the blond, left only with his memories of their times together.

There’s a non-sexy wet patch on the thigh of Sam’s right leg from the brunet’s breakdown, but he doesn’t dare reach down pull it away from his skin. It feels like any movement right now would disrupt the atmosphere in this cold, unforgiving room. It’s not a huge effort for him; he’s ex-military, he has hours of total stillness under his belt, most of it in situations of higher discomfort than this. That doesn’t mean this is pleasant though.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees Natasha and Clint standing shoulder to shoulder, as they often are found. They’re unmoving, their faces wiped clean of emotion in the way their different backgrounds had required them to. They both are also watching James as he leans over Rogers’ body.

The kid -and Sam knows James is technically classified as an adult, but he looks so small and lost and innocent that he doesn’t bother correcting himself- is trembling, his left arm shaking marginally more than his right as he extends his cuffed hands to close his friend’s eyes. The moment is so delicate, the atmosphere tense, like the slightest sound or movement from outside the two could trigger some sort of disaster. But nobody interferes.

With the deed completed, a flash of inaction and tranquillity follows, and then James crumples to the ground. He lands in the impressive amassment of blood, the act accompanied by a splattering noise as he disrupts the stillness and sends a few drops flying through the air onto the bare concrete.

He’s only there for a moment before Sam snaps into action.

Without waiting for Tony’s signal, he rushes over to where James lies. Sam already knows it would be himself that would have chosen to attend to the scene, and even if he wasn’t completely sure, he’s discovered that he feels a strange, protective urge to watch over James. It’s only as he’s running that he realises he would’ve rushed to help anyway, no matter whether Tony allowed it, just to make sure the boy wasn’t too badly hurt mentally, physically, or emotionally.

That’s a dangerous thought to have. Sam makes a mental note to never so much as _imagine_  instances wherein he would consider disobeying his boss an acceptable option. The man proved, not ten minutes ago, why he shouldn’t be messed with. There isn’t anything on his face that shows regret for his recent actions, even now, watching the heart-breaking developments that are occurring between James and his dead friend. Though, to be quite fair, he _might_ be feeling remorse, or at least something in that general vicinity, and Sam is just unable to see it. It does have to be said that Tony is better at concealing his emotions than anybody else Sam has ever come into contact with, the singular exception being one, Natasha Romanov.

Sam reaches the puddle -and the college students that it has claimed- in a short few seconds. His heavy-duty boots skid a little in the tacky crimson spread, but he holds his balance and snaps into medic mode.

His first order of business is pulling James to a patch of dry floor, which he does with no resistance from him. It’s almost like moving a dead body; the kid doesn’t even blink. Sam hears the sound of footsteps heading towards him, steady, but not light enough to belong to Nat. Kneeling next to James, who is flat on his back and staring sightlessly at the ceiling, he beckons for Clint to crouch on the opposite side.

No words need to be communicated between them and for that, Sam is grateful; the amount of concentration he’s needing to use right now doesn’t leave a lot to spare for conversation and giving orders. Clint is purely there in case James comes back to reality and tries to hurt himself or someone else. Sam’s only job to check him over and not have the pressing urgency to worry about his own safety. They’ve done this routine together before and this time surely won’t be the last.

The thing he’s most concerned about is James’ left arm, which had the most connection with the red pool. Sam knows the kid has extensive injuries to that half of his body from ‘the incident’, as he’s been calling it, and he needs to make sure there hasn’t been any further damage done, and more importantly, that there isn’t any blood-on-blood contamination that needs to be dealt with. Other than that, there shouldn’t be any physical issues. James didn’t hit his head when he fell, and no harm has come to him since Bruce looked him over yesterday.

The next major complication is James’ mental health, which Sam can already tell is not at an ideal standard. Right now, _visibly_ , James isn’t even present. He has clearly dissociated with the stress and the trauma of the past day and a half - all of that on top of however he’s been coping at home for the last week or so post-incident.

This is going to be a mess to heal.

That’s an obstacle to overcome in the distant future though. In the next few critical minutes and hours, Sam’s priority will be getting James cleaned up and sent to Bruce. Because, unlike himself, Bruce is a currently certified medical doctor, and not an ex-Air Force pararescue-man whose most recent patch up job was stitching Clint’s thigh after he sliced it on some dumpster metal while trying to pet a stray cat. Idiot.

Hoping that his temporary patient doesn’t actually connect back with real life for the time being, Sam nods at Clint to help him lift James. The kid isn’t too heavy overall, but he’s a dead weight and his arms are still restrained in those cuffs that Sam had put on him earlier, so having an extra hand is helpful with the awkwardness. They somehow manage to arrange him in a two-handed seat carry - the easiest option they have considering his inseparable wrists.

As soon as Sam makes sure James’ half-soaked clothes aren’t dripping any more blood onto the floor, they start moving out of the room, with only a slight departing nod to Tony and Nat, who haven’t moved since he left them to get to James. It looks like they’re about to have a long and serious conversation that Sam knows he and Clint will have to catch up on when they get a chance.

Under Tony’s orders, they head back to the room from which Sam had collected James just over an hour ago; an hour that feels like it took a lifetime to get through. Sam supposes it did, in a way. Steve Rogers is no more, thanks to the passage of that hour, and it seems as though it took a part of James, too.

~x~

Clint, Nat, Bruce, and himself had all been subjected to yet another discussion regarding Tony’s revenge plan first thing that morning. This one covered what action should be taken immediately following Rogers’ death and what the following steps should be beyond that. Tony had explained the idea of helping James recover and then come up with a way to integrate him into their force. He’d given his reasons as to why he couldn’t kill James as well as Rogers, and he hadn’t needed to bring up why he couldn’t let him go back home. They all knew the risks with the latter option, and even though it pained them to aid and abet the ruining of a couple of college kids’ lives, that risk of having their own selves exposed wasn’t one worth taking.

A fair leader, Tony recognised everyone’s individual thoughts and had listened to their projected alternatives, but ultimately, he was not to be swayed. He was their boss after all, and their ally, each of them with a different tale as to how that came into fruition. Tony had the final say over every decision and so, they had agreed to support him in the end. If it wasn’t to save their own skins, then it was to give James a better life and to help him settle into his new reality as best they could, knowing how hard of a time he was about to have.

All four had been doubtful of Tony’s agenda long before they’d even set out to retrieve Rogers for him, but now, though they are still uneasy and _not quite_ accepting of the proceedings, they’ve recognised and acknowledged that a mistake was make, James is here, and this is happening. It’s moving forward no matter what and it’s most definitely too late to look back. They’re all in this for good.

~x~

Sam hands James completely over to Clint when they reach the undecorated door that leads to one of Tony’s untrustworthy-guest/non-dangerous-captive rooms. It’s unnerving, the way that James doesn’t so much as blink at the jostle, just continues gazing into the distance with his head resting on Clint’s shoulder as the man holds him bridal style. The position is awkward with the restraints, but it will only be for a short spell.

Knowing that Clint is purposely looking away, Sam lays the pads of his left middle- and ring-fingers onto the scanner and pushes opens the door once it unlocks.

Each of Tony’s employees that is authorised to enter certain rooms and hallways has a unique number and order of fingerprints that they must use to do so. For such a large organisation, there aren’t many employees to start with, but there are even less who possess the authority that allows them free passage around this impressively technologically advanced country mansion.  
Sam’s passcode is the same for every scanner, but his pattern of prints differs from the one that Clint, for example, will need to use if he were to be granted entry to the same area. Everyone is obliged to keep their arrangement of fingerprints a close secret and is not permitted knowledge of anyone else’s assigned code, regardless of how close a friendship between them may be. It’s an ingenious system that Tony, of course, designed himself, and one that has yet to be broken, disobeyed, or disrespected.  
The level of confidence among those few who have proven their worthiness is unmatched by any other company. There’s a certain camaraderie that comes with being in this business, especially being a part of a major but close-knit operation like this one.  
The complexity of it all makes it even more challenging for potential intruders to get around if they somehow manage to make it past the gates… and the perimeter guards… and the cameras… and Tony’s dog, Dum-E, a terrifyingly large English mastiff that roams the compound, who is actually the sweetest fucking canine Sam has ever met, but who will also rip the hand off an undesirable visitor without a second thought.

As soon as everyone is inside with a definite absence of pesky infiltrators and, unfortunately, Dum-E, Sam shuts the door and makes sure it locks before following Clint to the bathroom. He can already tell that it’s going to be a hardship cleaning James up in such a small space, especially because he knows that Bruce is on his way, which means there will soon be four fully-grown human males in one tiny room and even smaller adjacent bathroom.

By the time Sam catches up, Clint has lowered James in the empty bathtub and stepped back to rinse his bloodied hands and forearms off in the sink, moving himself out of the way so that Sam, being the more socially adept and considerate of the two, can take over.

He takes it in his stride, approaching the porcelain vessel that’s now stained with reddish-brown smears of partially dried blood from clothing that needs to be incinerated ASAP. Cautiously, Sam squats next to it with his arms over the lip, positioned and ready to leap out of the way with ease should James make an attempt to lash out at him, either from fear or aggression. Or both.

“Kid,” Sam keeps his voice low and clear, easy to register and subsequently understand.

There’s no response.

In the same tone and volume, he repeats the word, this time also lightly tapping on the edge of the tub, thinking that perhaps James will feel the vibration, and the physical sensation will rouse him from his disengaged state.

It doesn’t work. There’s still no response, nor is there any sign that James even knows that somebody is with him and trying to get his attention.

Sam glances up at Clint and shrugs.

The blond gives a one-shouldered motion in return as he leans on the doorjamb with his thick arms crossed over his chest. His normally easy-going, outwardly happy persona has been dashed by the melancholy and seriousness of the surrounding insentient air. The whole atmosphere feels rough and tense, as if it somehow senses and understands the morbidity of what has just been witnessed by its inhabitants.

While Sam and Clint have become somewhat desensitised over the handful of years they’ve spent working for Tony and the varying levels of extreme violence they had both encountered before this employment opportunity arose, James is obviously having trouble getting through it. Unlike them, not only was _that_ most likely James’ first time seeing someone being killed, but that someone happened to be his best friend _and_ it was particularly gruesome _and_ it was personal. The experience has left him in a state of unresponsiveness that he needs to be brought out of before more damage has the occur to his brain and to his body.

“James, I’m going to touch your shoulder,” Sam tries, just in case he the kid can actually hear him. He knows that in some cases where it’s safe for all involved to do so, light physical communication may help to draw a dissociated person from their state, but Sam doesn’t want to scare or startle James if it’s possible to avoid it.

After a few seconds, James still hasn’t given any indicators of awareness, so Sam carefully reaches out to do as he said he would. He makes contact with the uninjured shoulder, thankfully the one that is closest to him. His hand covers the whole joint, this part of the shirt dry and unbloodied beneath his palm, the muscle tense below that.

Sam gives a light squeeze and restates James’ name.

Finally, _finally,_ that gets a reaction from the pale brunet. He blinks those huge, Bambi eyes and lethargically rolls his head onto his shoulder to face the touch and, in turn, Sam.

James’ breathing gets heavier, drastically opposite from the slow and shallow inhale-exhale routine he was performing not yet a minute earlier. He makes the noise of a frightened, hunted animal and jerks away from Sam, hitting and pushing against the far side of the tub. His head swivels, frantically taking in the tiny bathroom. It’s only a bare moment until he seems to register where he is and remembers the trauma that’s been swirling and haunting the scene. Tears immediately start to rise up from above his bottom lashes until they look ready to spill out.

“Hey, hey,” Sam murmurs, holding up his hands and resting back onto his ankles to give James some space. “You’re okay, buddy. You just went away for a sec, yeah? Took a little break from the world because it was a bit much for your brain to manage. You’re safe right here.”

Nothing in Sam’s life has prepared him for the exact situation, not that he’s surprised. Some experience might have been helpful though; at the risk of sounding cliché, he feels much like a fish out of water. James looks one twitch away from another full-blown panic and that’s not what Sam needs right now.

What he _does_ need is to get James out of his filthy shirt and pants, cleaned, warmed up, calmed down, and then seen to medically by Bruce, who Sam hears arrive perfectly on time. Hopefully Clint will keep the doctor busy for a minute while he continues to do his best to reassure James in a gentle, pacifying voice.

“It’s only me and Clint here with you now. Bruce, Doctor Bruce, you remember him? He’s just walked in as well. They’re both in the other room - the one that I collected you from this morning, you remember that, too? Nobody else is coming and nobody else can get in.”

It’s vital that Sam gives James as much information as he can about their environment and it’s critical that he does it in a calm, yet confident way. He doesn’t mention Tony’s name and he speaks slowly, making eye contact with the terrified boy that’s huddled on the other side of the empty bathtub, as far from him as he can be.

James doesn’t reply to Sam’s words, but Sam hadn’t been expecting him to. As long as he’s conscious and understanding, Sam doesn’t need James to use his voice. He does, though, require confirmation that he _is_ being understood, and he also has to get consent to touch James again and to assist him in getting clean of the filth he’s presently covered in.

“James, I need you to nod if you can hear and follow what I’m saying. Can you please do that for me?”

A breath of stillness with no recognition. A breath of wide, watery eyes staring and a trembling lower lip. A breath of confusion mingling fear. A deep breath into the lungs. And a nod. Small and subtle, but a nod nonetheless.

Sam gives a faint smile, hopefully reassuring without looking overly pleased. He has to determinedly remind himself that, to James, he’s the enemy; he’s the guy who put those cuffs on him this morning and then held him back while his best friend received the first stage of a Colombian necktie right in front of them. Sam _has_ to remember that and endeavour not to come across as trying to relate to James or be his ally. That will likely only push James further away from him and, by extension, make it harder for Tony to form a credible relationship with the kid for whatever use the boss believes such a thing may have in the future.

“Good,” he huffs. “That’s good. You can keep nodding and shaking your head if you don’t feel like talking, okay?”

Another nod. James twists his fingers together as best he can with his wrists still contained in the comfiest arm restraints that Sam could scrounge up, as per Tony’s order. Even those would surely be disagreeable and vexatious to someone without an existing injury, let alone someone with.

He bobs his own head in return, consciously keeping an open face and encouraging body language. “Thank you.” A certain amount of kindness is obviously key here, but not so much that James thinks he’s trying too hard. _Sam is the enemy to him._ “Are you in any physical pain?”

James’ eyes squint, like it’s taking a hefty amount of effort to take in and figure out what kind of state his body resides in and whether any of the things he’s feeling are negative.

At that thought, Sam resolutely ignores the twinkling sound of his heart forming delicate glass-like cracks. To be so out of it that James has to concentrate to feel his own body…  
He’s relieved though, when James shakes his head in a single, miniscule movement. “I’m glad to hear it. Well, _see_ it,” he continues with his calm voice, conversational tone, and subtle praise. “Next question; if I unlock those cuffs, are you going to try to hurt yourself or any of us three that are here?”

As Sam expected, James shakes his head again, more confidently than before.

“I’m going to take them off for you, okay? I need you to hold out your wrists, can you do that?”

 

** JBB **

Yes, he can do that. Bucky doesn’t trust this man at all, nor does he believe that he’s out of danger, but he’s willing to take the risk because he wants these blasted things gone and he wants them gone now.

What has he got to lose, anyway? Steve is dead. _Dead._ Bucky’s heart clenches painfully as the blood-splattered memories flash through the forefront of his mind on a rapidly-rolling film reel. If these people -whoever they may be- want to kill him too, there’s apparently nothing that will come in their way. Unfortunately, acknowledging and understanding that fact doesn’t mean he’s not scared of it and of them.

Every time Bucky tries to form words, his windpipe gets unbearably tight and the unwelcome image of Steve’s own mutilated throat forces its way to the forefront of his mind and he feels like he’s going to be sick. The option of visually responding to the posed questions is helpful and efficient, seeing as it doesn’t involve Bucky adding bile to the blood stains on his clothes and the bathtub in which he remains.

Bucky doesn’t nod or shake his head in reply to the yet-unanswered question but he does lean forward slowly, timid and very aware of the ways this could go wrong should Sam turn out to be insincere. He keeps his body as far away from the veteran as he can while presenting his trembling, aching-but-not-quite-painful arms within reach.

Sam extends his own hands cautiously like he’s trying not to startle him as he watches them intently, getting nearer and nearer to their goal.

The actual moment is anticlimactic; the intense and nerve-filled build up brought more anxiety that the task warranted, though of course, Bucky couldn’t have known that. Sam quickly loosens the correct straps, making a deliberate show of touching Bucky’s skin as little as possible, and then pulls the bindings away leaving Bucky able to wrap his shaky limbs around his body and shuffle back to the far corner of the bathtub.

Sam sighs. “Are you still with me, James?”

Cautious of the headache growing behind his eyes, Bucky nods just enough for it to be recognised as such. All he wants is to be left alone, but the way Sam is hovering tells him that he’s going to be around people for a while longer.

He pays the man no more attention, hoping he’ll just go away but not feeling confident in this attempt. Doing his best to pretend it _is_ working, Bucky lowers his gaze and finds his eyes drawn and stuck to one particular bloodied patch of ceramic near his bare and freezing feet.

In the back of his mind, suddenly, he realises that he’s the reason it’s there. His clothes are soaked with the stuff, there’s rust-coloured splatters covering his hands, and no matter how he moves, he can’t get away from it. Steve is all over him, clinging to every possible particle and not letting go.

Not like Bucky let him go. Not like Bucky gave up his fight to get free and just watched as he bled out, twitching on the cold, hard floor. Not like Bucky turned away at the last moment, leaving him all alone to die in a room full of strangers alongside his weak friend who couldn’t even stay with him until the end of the line, like they’d always promised each other.

Panic begins to rise once more within Bucky. Unable to sit still while coated in Steve’s blood, he squirms uncomfortably in his seat, barely noticing his breathing getting heavier. He pulls at his shirt and his sweatpants trying to put some space between the spoiled fabric and his skin. He can hear himself whimpering, the stress and tension in both his mind and body bringing forth another wave of uncontrollable hysteria.

But then, there’s another soft hand on his good shoulder and a kind face becoming clearer before his eyes as he tries to force his concentration towards taking in its details; curly brown hair, rectangular wire-rimmed glasses, a hesitant smile that whispers words of comfort.

Bucky likes Bruce. He’s calming and he’s gentle and he made the pain from earlier go away, but most importantly, he didn’t have any hand in taking Steve away. At least, not that Bucky is wise to, but that’s another distressing can of worms that he wants to keep unopened and at the very back of the pantry where no light can reach it.

The doctor is here. He might be associated with Stark and Sam and the others, but he’s still a doctor. He’s supposed to help people, right? And he did help Bucky before; maybe he can help him now. Bucky isn’t sure what he needs, but he knows he needs _something._ Bruce will know.

He opens his mouth to speak, to ask for help. He thinks his lips manage to form the right shapes, but all that is expelled from between them is a puff of air. One word. Bucky can’t even get out one word. He couldn’t save his friend; according to Sam and the fact that he now resides in a bathtub that he has no recollection of climbing into, he couldn’t manage to stay present in the realm of reality; now, he can’t even fucking talk.

Distantly though, beyond the pounding in his ears and in his head, Bucky hears Bruce’s mellow voice, a constant droning that becomes understandable language the more he pays attention. “Help? I can help you, James. Take a deep breath for me, that’s good. And another one, nice and slow. In… and out.”

Bucky breathes in time with Bruce’s words, doing his best to pull his mind away from the dark cloud that drifts within him, over him, all around. It’s trying to smother him with panic and memories and negativity, but he keeps breathing with Bruce, filling his lungs and diluting the thick, black fog with clean air and empty thoughts.

He almost longs for that vacant state of mind his brain presented him with earlier. It would be easier to push himself into that void of nothingness where this life and its traumas don’t exist; just himself, floating limply and very far away from the horrible reality that is doing its best to puncture his safe bubble of isolation, but cannot.

Yes, it’d be easier, and he finds himself starting to slip back there, but Bruce’s hand is still on his shoulder and he’s still breathing in time with the doctor who continues to murmur meaningless words in his calm, welcoming voice. Those things keep him tethered here where he sits in this bloodied bathtub, waiting for help that he’s been promised is coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dum-E the giant, adorable, goofy, scarily protective, English mastiff: *exists in Sam’s thoughts for 0.4 seconds*  
> Me, immediately working him into the plot as a Very Important Character: Let’s definitely meet him later and give him all of the love.
> 
> Disclaimer:  
> I have no experience with dissociation. I recognise that what is portrayed here has the potential to not be realistic. If any of the possible inaccuracies are offensive, please let me know, otherwise just read it as a piece of fiction. 
> 
> Apology:  
> Last chapter, there was a technical issue that resulted in me not being able to update the tags quickly enough to protect some readers from the content. I fully accept this responsibility and I will endeavour to prevent further harm to the best of my ability. I am truly sorry to everyone who was affected.
> 
> In saying that, it should be known that this is a dark story, and while it may not get worse than ch 7, dark themes will continue to be present. Trigger warnings and tags will appear at the start of every chapter where I deem them necessary, but if I miss something that you think needs to be explicitly stated, please let me know in a polite manner so that I can fix it before any more readers are put in negative mindsets.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me so far! I know my author notes are usually really long, but this one was especially necessary and contained important messages that I needed to share. 
> 
> xx


	9. who's still standing when it clears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary - Tony and Natasha have the quickest debrief in history; Clint has a nap; Bruce gets nostalgic
> 
> Chapter title from _Over My Head (Cable Car)_ by The Fray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning:  
> Mention of non-consensual drug use (mild sedation by a doctor for medical purposes) and the clinical undressing, washing, and redressing of said drugged person (done by a doctor for medical purposes). The actual event is not written, but it is briefly talked about and I wanted to make sure that you all go into the chapter knowing it’s something that has happened. There is nothing sexual about either of these events.
> 
> This chapter is mostly told in shortish snippets because there’s a lot going on and I didn’t want to be jumping back and forth in time too much.
> 
> One more thing before we begin: I’m really sorry about the months of waiting for this chapter. I have many, many reasons as to why it’s so late, but I won’t bore you with them. Please enjoy this, which I have finally managed to pull together.

**AES - 27 th December 2018** (still)

The second the door shuts after Sam and Clint leave the room with James cradled awkwardly in their arms, Tony sees Nat turn to face him. He keeps her in his peripherals and makes an acknowledging noise, inviting her to continue while his gaze lingers on the abandoned, lifeless body of Steven Grant Rogers where it lies in the middle of the floor.

“Tony,” Nat accepts the prompt to get on with it, “I sincerely hope that your plan for what’s coming next is extraordinarily more detailed than the barest slivers of information that you gave us this morning.” -Tony grunts in discontent, but she ignores him and continues- “I understand that James was a shock and that you haven’t had a lot of time to consider his near and distant futures, but what you said earlier was barebones and desperate at best. We need more to work with than that and you know it.”

As always, her tone is no-nonsense. It’s nice talking to Nat because she doesn’t quiver before him and transform from a strong employee and all-around terrifying woman into a pathetic, snivelling excuse for a human being in his presence, like many who came before her -and a great many since- have. She sets it out straight for him and tells it like it is, not intimated by his power and fully prepared to kick his ass into gear if and when she deems it necessary.

This trait was one of the things that initially drew Tony to her and subsequently allowed him to let her get as close to him as she is now. In the earliest of their acquainted days, there was a hard line for her to walk; it was a very thin line indeed, between being assertive and confident while also being respectful and worthy of earning Tony’s scarcely-given trust. But, as with _almost_ everything Nat sets her mind to, she’d nailed it ten times over and hasn’t let him down since.

Well… until the whole ‘kidnapping James’ thing, but he has a nagging feeling that he just might be thanking her for that too, should everything go according to the plan that, as of right now, he only has a basic draft of.

“I _do_ have an idea for how this…” Tony waves his hands through the air, no spoken words necessary nor able to describe the current debacle, “…needs to be handled. It will be a long game; I’ll read you the most important rules later on, once all the participants have had a chance to get some rest and process what happened here.” He turns to her, a slight smirk on his face. “I hope you’re ready to play.”

Nat only hums in response, turning her eyes to the body in the puddle of blood, a look of deep thought and concentration betraying her normally concealed state of mind.

Tony follows suit, glancing over the mess once more. “Find Clint when he’s done with Sam. You two make sure he gets cleaned spotless before you do away with the body. It’s more critical than ever that this _cannot_ be traced back to me and I don’t have the confidence in anyone else’s ability to ensure that.” He lifts one shoulder in a parody of a shrug. “At least, not on the level that I know you and Clint can. I’ll leave the specifics up to you; the less I know from hereon in, the better.”

He nods, finalising his orders and spinning on his heel to walk out. He only makes it two steps before he stops and looks back at Nat over his shoulder. “Oh! Get me an alibi for the past few days in case someone comes sniffing. Murdoch will be a reliable choice if you can swing it. Lang has had a few too many run-ins with the law recently, don’t contact him. Same goes for Laufeyson. Try Jones if she’s been around New York and all else fails.”

Nat inclines her head in understanding but doesn’t speak, crossing her arms and standing alert, probably running through all of the options in her head, trying to find the most subtle and least risky solution.

With so much to do himself, Tony leaves her to it, exiting the bare, concrete room and preparing to get lost in his own thoughts. He begins on the quickest route back to his office so that he can sit in private, mull over and process the events of the morning and his accompanying grief, joy, stress, and weightlessness. There are too many conflicting emotions that need to be dealt with, if not for him, then for his parents who were cheated by life and by the law. At least now, they can rest in peace. The crushing load that lifts off his shoulders is a bonus.

Already, as Tony ascends from the basement level and walks through the empty corridors of his residence, the grisly scenes are replaying in his mind as they often do in the wake of such an occasion, the details in perfect replica, not a hair out of place. Tony checks his watch as he reaches his destination; it’s not even midday. He needs a drink.

 

** NAR **

“How is he?” are the first words that Natasha speaks the second she meets eyes with Clint as he stumbles into the main common room of Tony’s inner circle. Only a very select few are authorised with access to this suite, and Bruce, Clint, Sam, and herself, along with Tony when he has time, make the most of the space. Being the mansion’s only permanent residents has its benefits.

Her closest friend flops down onto the sofa next to her and throws his head into the backrest, his eyes shutting and a tired sigh escaping his lips. “If Tony’s not careful, he’s going to break that kid,” Clint mumbles into the hand he has splayed over his face. “If he hasn’t already,” he adds, faintly.

Whatever condition the young man is in, it mustn’t be good to have Clint so obviously drained after only a couple of hours. Not that Natasha would expect it to be; everything about the past couple of days would be enough to wreck a stable-minded and mature person. James, though he is in his early twenties, hasn’t yet got the benefit of a fully developed brain and not only that, but he is entering this dangerous world just a single week after experiencing a seriously traumatic event. One that his body hasn’t had the chance to heal from and one that certainly still has his mind reeling.

A soft noise works its way up Natasha’s throat in response, not surprised but finding no words to express the emotions swirling within her at Clint’s assessment. Instead, aware and mindful of the cameras and microphones that are always watching and listening, she briefly reminds him of their earlier conversation with Sam.

“He’s here now, most likely permanently, we know that,” she starts, laying a burgundy-tipped, manicured hand onto Clint’s arm. “We need to make it tolerable for him where we can. Tony’s taken his life away but we can try to give him a new and better one.”

Clint huffs. “Yeah. I’m telling you now though, it’s going to be exhausting.” He lets his hand slide away from his face and land on his stomach, turning to look at Natasha properly. “How long do we have to deal with Rogers?” he wearily questions.

“Probably best to do it by tomorrow if we can get the plan finalised by then,” Natasha sighs, raising an eyebrow to shut down Clint’s ‘I’m-about-to-start-whining’ expression before it reaches its final form. “It’ll be easier to manage the body with rigor mortis still in effect, and anyway, I don’t want to leave it too late because there’ll soon be too many people travelling around and returning from holidays. I’ve moved him to the cold storage in the meantime, and called in our cleaner to do the basement this afternoon.”

A sniffle and nod of understanding is all she gets from Clint before he falls asleep right there on the sofa in classic Clint style, finally free to nap away the lassitude and stress that built up from handling a damaged and shaken-up captive.

This is so far beyond anything the two of them have done before. Disposing of a body is something that they have each done numerous times; they both know the ins and outs of that process like the backs of their hands. But there has never been quite this much pressure riding on their performance to be so discreet and flawlessly executed. _And_ they have never had to take charge of a living, traumatised, _unwilling_ detainee that somehow needs to be exposed, desensitised, and incorporated into their dubious and unsafe existences.

The boys’ disappearances haven’t yet been reported, or at least, they haven’t been _publicly_ reported. Their corporation has access to certain members of various police precincts, but for the sake of keeping Tony’s name as far from this mess as possible, none of them have been contacted in search of inside information.

Natasha knows that when the case opens up, her boss will likely be named as a suspect due to the connection with his parents, and so to avoid incriminating behaviour beyond the suggestive ‘revenge killing and kidnapping’, Tony and his company needs to become and remain distant while putting up a front that nothing has changed at all.

She supposes that they shall all have to get used to feeling as burned-out as Clint currently looks. More so than their careers normally call for, anyway. Every step going forward must be carefully controlled and monitored until such a time that the buzz and urgency surrounding them and their captives has died down. Even then, Natasha isn’t sure she’ll ever be able to relax with the knowledge that, at any moment for the rest of his life, James has the potential to cause this whole operation to collapse in on itself.

But for now, her immediate duties surround Rogers, and those duties can’t be completed until Clint re-joins the land of the living. Tonight, the two will perfect the plans that had been started the moment they heard of what Tony was going to do, and tomorrow, their agenda shall be carried out.

In this line of work, it’s easy to get overwhelmed with the high demand and multitude of secrets and tasks. Early on, one learns how important it is to stay on top of everything, taking breaks when they’re available and quickly mastering the mountainous stress that becomes daily life.

So, until her skills are needed once more, a midday doze with Clint seems like the best way to take a load off and rejuvenate from the morning’s experience.

 

** RBB **

According to Bruce’s watch, it’s almost 14:00 when he finds himself standing before Tony’s office doors and knocking in a request for entry. Having stopped by his own office on the way here to drop of his medical kit and pick up a much-needed cup of tea from the nearest break room, he’s thankful for the chance to finally sit down and discuss every pressing titbit with his friend.

You see, though Tony might insist he has succeeded in not letting anyone close enough to call them a friend, Bruce knows otherwise. If not all of his most trusted and reliable employees, then at the very least, _Bruce_ could be considered a friend. Long before Tony was Bruce’s boss, the two were on somewhat equal footing.

They had met and become close in college, when Bruce was beginning his second degree and Tony was starting his first. A handful of their classes had overlapped and they soon realised that nobody else was keeping up with them intellect-wise and thus, a shaky acquaintance was born, ready to develop into something more.

Somehow, probably through the (still relevant and necessary) use of extreme methods of self-control, Bruce had managed to put up with Tony’s quirks and weave through the layers of stubbornness that surrounded his ideals. They had both graduated without hassle and kept in contact through the years as Bruce built up his experience in the medical field and Tony, at the retirement of his father, took over the technological giant that was, and remains to be, Stark Industries.

It wasn’t until Tony was in his mid-twenties that he began privately dabbling in weapons development, a hobby he picked up due to boredom, apparently – an excuse that Bruce has no trouble believing. From there, the then-young man realised that if he could control even a portion of the local criminal underworld, then maybe he could make New York City a safer place for civilians.

Many years on, to this day, Bruce still clearly remembers the night that Tony presented his mad and, at the time, half-formed scheme. Coming from anybody else, Bruce would have written them off as insane and a danger to society, but he knew Tony, and so he knew that if there _was_ a single person out there who could manage to pull something like that off with the least collateral damage possible, it would be his genius companion.

Nevertheless, at first, Bruce had been unsure and not wanted anything to do with breaking, or even bending, the law. With no hard feelings, Tony had acquiesced and left him far away from his second business venture… until he showed up at Bruce’s door on a drizzly autumn evening, _somehow_ managing to stand upright while bleeding sluggishly from a gunshot wound to his gut.

From there, there was only one way forward. Bruce has yet to find a large enough reason for regret, but perhaps this boy is the line.

Tony’s voice sounds from beyond the thick, heavy door, calling for Bruce to enter.

He does so, cradling his cup of tea close as though it holds the answers to all of the universe’s questions. With all the stress and sleeplessness that exist as products of the past twenty-four hours -and has it really only been a day?!-, the soothing brew is hitting a spot inside him that no other manmade creation can reach.

The scene that meets Bruce’s eyes upon entering the office is one that exudes exhaustion. Tony’s desk is covered in stray documents, a blatant contradiction to the usual neatness and organisation of his paperwork station – his workshop is a different story altogether. There are four mugs scattered at various locations across the surface, a stained plate and fork, the presence of which at least proves the man has eaten something, and two laptops set up, one on either side of his impressive PC display. This setting looks more like Tony’s chaotically systemised engineering lab than the usual seriousness of his less hands-on work.

Tony, himself, is situated amongst the clutter, a tangible manifestation of the word ‘enervated’. His hair, normally ruffled with obvious artistic intent, now sticks out at multiple angles, wild from the tracking of fingers through the strands. There is a certain fatigue surrounding him, one that comes with being overly stressed for an extended period. The eyes that look up at Bruce are dull and shadowed, lacking their familiar spark, but a little bit of life seeps into them when Tony sees who just walked in.

“Brucie-bear!”

“Hey, Tony,” Bruce smiles and lowers himself into one of the chairs facing the large, cluttered desk. “How are you holding up?”

Rather predictably, Tony carelessly waves his hand through the air as though batting away the question. “Fine, I’m fine,” he mumbles. “What about James? You look tired; was he really that bad?”

Shrugging, Bruce takes a sip of his cooling tea. The look of worry that has formed on Tony’s face is curious, but he decides that now is not the time to putter about currently meaningless details, and skips right to the point. “Well, after this morning, he’s not exactly thriving.”  
And yes, maybe Bruce holds a degree of resentment towards the man opposite him, because was it _really_ necessary to force James to witness the destruction of his closest friend? The young man is in for a long recovery and Bruce isn’t sure that Tony thought the consequences all the way through before acting. The look on his face at Bruce’s snarky, venom-filled beratement is enough to satisfy the doctor for now, at least. He sighs, resigned, and gives Tony the details he subtly asked for.

Tony’s expression doesn’t change during Bruce’s report. He is unmistakably suppressing his reactions on purpose as he hears about James’ dissociation and Sam’s attempts to bring him back, his confusion and apparent trauma-induced muteness, his continued relapses to a state of near panic, and, eventually, the mild sedative that Bruce had ultimately decided to administer for everyone’s benefit.

Following that, James was a little calmer, albeit more dazed and limper, and didn’t fight either Bruce or Sam as they cleaned him up with clinical efficiency and redressed him in some comfortable clothes; one of Sam’s spare jumpers and Clint’s smallest pair of sweats -both of which were baggy and loose on the boy, but would suffice for the time being-, and Nat’s fuzziest, most outrageously yellow socks. Bruce reassures Tony that their captive (“Please don’t use that word, Bruce.” “But it’s the most accurate-” “Bruce!”) is now resting, having given in to the strong pull of sleep that the drug sparked.

“His arm looks stable to me,” Bruce explains. “At least, as far as I can see without the use of any advanced equipment. His ribs are also okay, though he will likely be sore for the next couple of days due to the fact that he hasn’t been resting as he should be. Everything is, remarkably, on track to be completely healed within the next month or so, assuming James gets takes it easy.”

Tony nods. “He will. I’ll have Sam keep an eye on him and you can make sure that his health remains on track.”

“What about you?” This is Tony’s _project_ and Bruce will be damned if it’s getting pawned off to him and Sam. There had better be a good response on its way explaining the absence his part in this mess.

“I’m heading into the city tomorrow morning. I’ll be gone for a few days at least.”

Well. It’s _a_ response.

“You’re leaving?!” Bruce stands, voice raised and a thick vein prominent at his temple, pulsing with sudden rage. “Now?!”

“Calm down, Bruce.” And with that, ‘friend-Tony’ is gone and ‘boss-Stark’ is at the forefront. “Not only do I need to show my face in public to help squash any suspicions, but I also need to organise and attend the funeral, sort out the post-holiday chaos at Stark Industries, _and_ figure out how the _fuck_ I’m going to handle James because we both know that there is no way I can let him go and I stupidly told Nat that I have a plan when all I really have is the end goal.”

Stunned into silence by the whispered fury that grew as Tony continued speaking, Bruce remains still in his seat experiencing a rare moment of hesitance surrounding what to say or do.

“Okay,” is what he settles on, feeling to need to break the tension in the room after a mere thirty seconds. “Okay, I’ll keep an eye on his arm and make sure he has whatever else he needs.” He stands. “But, when you get back, you’d better have a damn good idea on how to proceed, otherwise-”

“Otherwise what?” Tony interrupts, his eyes dangerously narrow.

Bruce sighs, defeated. “Otherwise we’ll all be in trouble, Tony. Don’t make me lament my decision all those years ago.”

And with that, he leaves his friend, his boss, and retires to his office for a much-needed meditation session. Who knows how much stress the near future will bring?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t… know? if this is any good? I struggled a lot to get this chapter out and it probably needs another proof-read, but I hope it at least makes sense and everything is coming together in the universe?
> 
> I’m going to take this opportunity to say that I’m not super happy with how I’ve been handling Tony’s work/career so far. I feel like I’d need a whole other story just to cover it because explaining it all as I go would take too much away from this plot, you know? It should come up later, as I’ve said before, but I don’t want to force it unnaturally. This is my first major fic and I regret not having spent a little more time planning the finer details before I started writing. Big projects are always a learning experience and this is definitely something that I know I can improve on next time. 
> 
> Also, the changes to the already uploaded chapters were surrounding the house where the story is currently set. To save you from going back and rereading everything, just forget I said anything about the Avenger’s compound. I’ve redesigned the pathways and rooms so that you can think of it more like a country mansion.
> 
> Take care and thank you for reading! I hope the chapter wasn’t a disappointment after such a long wait.
> 
> xx


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